Burn
by ocean of rage
Summary: Royce's laugh bounces in my skull, shattering it into fragments while I slip under into the requiem of dreaming, even if it is the kind about blowing your brains out with your daddy's revolver and having them be used as wallpaper in your any eleven year old's wet dream bedroom of pinks and purples and weathered beaten books.
1. Chapter 1

Burn

Part One: From Ashes Like A Phoenix

One

Brand New

"This will be our new start," my aunt says with a smile, her warm, pale-blue eyes accessing the sleek, isolated house in front of us.

Me, I just duck my head and stare at my hands. My nails are long and the black nail polish is chipped; my hands used to be smooth as glass, smattered with light freckles. Now, they look all wrinkled and burned, just like the rest of me.

Let me backtrack. My name is Chloe Jennifer Saunders. I'm fifteen and a half. I'm barely five feet and have no curves to speak of, let alone breasts. I barely fit a double A bra cup.

I used to be pale as porcelain but now I'm a jumbled mess of browns and red and tans and creams, a disgusting result of a house fire back in Sacramento, and my hair is strawberry blonde with dozens of red streaks that I put in after the accident.

I wanted to dye it black, because I hated my hair (it reminded me of my mother) but Lauren said no. I hate my eyes. They're a very distinct, very clear blue. That's what attracted _him _to me. _He_ always said he loved my eyes.

"Chloe, come look at the backyard," Lauren says. I drag myself out of the car and shuffle over to her, peeking out from underneath my hood. The grass is bright green and there are lots of trees. Typical backyard. I turn away and Lauren sighs this heavy sigh that makes me feel horrible.

"I know this is hard for you—" she begins but I interrupt her.

"No, you don't," I say sharply. "I lost everything. You lost a brother. I lost my mother, my father, hell, I-I lost most of my skin." I rub my hands, feeling the leathery skin. "So don't you _dare _try to tell me this is hard for me."

Trembling with anger, I turn and make my way into the woods. I can't be here right now, with her. She doesn't understand. At all. She may have lost her brother but I lost everything. I lost my skin, my family, my _everything._

The tree branches swipe against my clothes but I ignore it and continue forward; my hands are shaking with anger. My face feels hot as I hear Lauren call for me. My pace picks up. _No, _I think to myself.

I make a left and break into a sprint when I hear the trees behind me rustle—_he's _here. My feet pound noisily on the floor and my chest aches. The wind whips my hair away from my face and, abruptly, my foot catches on a root. I lurch forward and the ground rushes to meet me; I end up tumbling into a dingy, dark clearing with logs and a canopy that swirls down light. It's cool and earthy here; my own little world away from the painful reality. It looks magical. It looks isolated.

Isolated.

Just like me. I'm all alone now.

My hands are bleeding from the fall and I suck in a breath. My face is throbbing. It feels sticky when I touch it and my hood's fallen off, my hair tangled with leaves and dirt.

In the middle of the clearing is a small pond. Clear water. Little fish swim circles in it. A frog scrambles out and hops into the underbrush. I slowly pick out the mess from my hair as I walk to the water; I need to see how bad my face—my ugly, disgusting face—is scratched up.

When I kneel, I start. The scars aren't as bad as they are on the rest of me. They're like lava, flowing over my skin, light and dark like pools of light on the forest floor.

The Water Chloe copies my movement as I brush my hair into a ponytail and let my hands run through the water. My jeans are filthy and my hoodie is grass-stained. Lauren will be very angry.

The trees shiver as someone breaks through their line. "Why?" I ask Water Chloe. _I hate you. You left me all alone. I'm so alone. You left me. You were supposed to die peacefully in your sleep with Mom. Now I'm stuck here without you. And _he's_ still out there. I know he's going to find me. He always has and this time…no one can save me. _

I jump when I hear dogs. Barking. Loud, excited. Their paws smack the earth. They whine. I turn around slowly and my breath catches.

The guy holding the dogs' leashes is tall, giant. He's over six feet tall. He's the kind of guy you'd see at the gym, except he's wearing a tank top that does nothing to hide his muscular frame and jeans that hug his long, muscular legs. His grey running sneakers are old, tearing at- the heels.

His skin is smooth, like marble and the color of a light bronze. He obviously does a lot of outside work; his tan lines are thick and extremely evident. His hair is dark, dark like ink. His eyebrows are thick, like serial killer thick. Tyler Hoechlin thick. His face is pocketed with acne scars and acne itself; he can't be any older than me, probably in his early twenties at the most.

His eyes are interesting. They're very green, almost like toxic waste in old comic books. I won't be surprised when they reflect the light like a dog's. "Roxxie!" One of the dogs is off her leash and is sprinting towards me, her tail going forty miles per hour.

I meet the dog's eyes. Brown, like the sunset. I crouch down as she slows, trotting up to me. She's a big girl, an Australian sheep dog mix. Shaggy hair. Big, expressive eyes. She sniffs my outstretched hands; I ignore her owner's staring at me—no, at my skin.

His gaze is intense so it's hard to miss the heat.

"Good girl," I say softly as I run my burnt fingers through her soft, light fur. She whines and licks my face. "Who are you?" he asks in a deep, gravelly voice. My stomach flutters. I look at him. He looks at me. "Chloe!" calls my aunt.

I get to my feet and Roxxie butts her head against my legs. I lean down and stroke softly along her spine. "Good girl," I whisper.

He clears his throat. I meet his eyes. They're staring at me, trying to uncode me. "Nobody. Call me Nobody."

I turn and walk away; I can hear him behind me. "Derek."

I like the sound of his name. _Derek. Derek. Green-eyed Derek. Chloe and Derek. Chlerek. _Lauren's ordering Mister Jim's when I get home. She doesn't notice me. "I got you…" I'm not listening.

I'm too busy thinking about Derek. Derek-I-have-amazing-eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Burn

Two

Flames

The moonlight pierces my eyelids and wakes me in the early morning hours. Aunt Lauren is asleep, seeing at the blurry, digital clock on my nightstand reads the time is 2:30 AM.

Groaning to myself, I sit up. A quick glance outside tells me it's darker than black outside, the moon suspended by an invisible thread in the sky, glowing bright, bright yellow-white. It's beautiful.

My skin is covered in goosebumps, the sheets sticky and cold with damp sweat. A nightmare—no, a dream, a memory—is replaying in the back of my head: He's giving me a beautiful smile while holding my smooth, perfect hand, the ring on His finger, His family crest He told me, gleaming in the light. He swept back His hair, long and curly with natural highlights from the sunshine, and smirked at me.

With a smile that unsettled me, He turned to the beach. The memory is warped. I can hear myself crying—or was it Him? I remember tasting blood, my cheek stinging—had I fallen or had He pushed me? The memory changed to something else: He was curled up on the floor, crying hysterically. I came to break up with Him. He turned it around on me, blaming no one but Himself, crying and dripping snot all over His face.

There was rope under the bed, curled in a figure eight. My face was burning with the heat of my tears; He clawed at his arms and started to scream at me.

"Get a hold of yourself, Chloe," I whisper to myself, rubbing at my eyes. Tears have trickled down my burnt cheeks and make my chapped lips sting. _You aren't a child._ I push back my little girl sweets-themed comforter and let my feet brush the floor; my blue-painted toenails wiggle on my toes as they search for my bunny slippers.

I give up after a few minutes have gone by with no slippers in sight.

The house is silent. Outside, the wind is a low murmur of a whispery breeze; crickets sing quietly and bats squeak to each other, to their lovers and children and family, alive in the nighttime.

I slide on a sweatshirt over my pink flannel pajamas, which are, quite honestly, made more for a little kid than a fifteen-year-old.

Maybe I'll take a little walk. I look out the window, staring down. My heart stops when I see Him, staring up at me with that stupid grin I saw on His scratched-up face last time I saw Him, His own doing. I scramble back, heart pounding as hot tears flood my eyes.

When I peek over the windowsill, He's gone. Maybe I'd imagined it? He can't know where I am. Shaking my head, I make my way downstairs. The porch is quiet and I'm close enough to the house that I can relax. I kick my feet; let them dangle off the edge of the railing. "It's lovely out," breathes a voice and I jump, rocking myself off balance. I lurch forward.

A pair of strong, strong arms—_no, _I think to myself even as His strong arms wound tight around me after our first time together (mine, not His) floats to the surface of my mind—wind around my stomach and a shoulder nudges me back onto the railing.

"He didn't mean to scare you," says another voice, much different than the first. The second voice is softer, feminine. When I open my eyes, I see Derek's toxic-green eyes and a pair of almond-shaped brown ones.

The other boy is lean and wiry, around five-foot-seven. His skin is lightly tanned and flawless—damn it. His honey-blonde hair is spiky, shiny with gel. He's dressed in similar wear as Derek; a sweat-soaked tank top and shorts with running sneakers.

"Roxxie!"

I hop off the railing, my legs shaking. I'm still shaken up from the window incident or am I still fluttery after Derek's rock-hard arms around my waist? "Come here," I say softly, letting her sniff my fingers. Her pink little tongue washes my burnt skin, not minding the discoloration.

"My name's Simon," says the blonde boy. I eyeball his outstretched hand. "Chloe," I mutter back, ignoring his polite hand. Simon's smile falters a bit at the corners of his mouth; I remember watching His mouth do that if I said something He didn't like.

"I see Roxxie's taken a liking to you," he continues conversationally, like I'm not completely ignoring the humans and focusing on the cute dog that's sniffing at my neck. Her cold nostrils touch my pendant. I let my fingers slide through her fur, soft, warm skin humming with energy under long, scruffy fur. She feels like the dogs I used to work with back home—I shut down the thought immediately; home is where He is.

"And she speaks," Derek grunts. I look at him from behind my bangs. He's standing calm, arms crossed like he's angry—He'd do that too, when He didn't like someone, cross His arms—I clench my fists tight and distract myself with the pain.

"What brings you here to Lyle?"

I ignore Simon and stand up, my legs prickling as the blood rushes back into them. "I have to go." A gush of wind blows my hair around and Roxxie starts to bark viciously at something behind me as I gather my hair away from my face. _Chloe…Chloe…my precious little kitten, Chloe…_I whip around and my stomach drops down to my feet. He's standing behind me, smiling wickedly, holding the rope from our breakup night.

My legs are weak and then they give out, causing my body to hit the ground hard. I feel like I'm going to be sick. Roxxie braces herself in front of me and continues to bark, saliva flying from her sharp canines.

He smiles wider, His strong hands—I remember them clawing at my legs as I escaped down the stairs, Him screaming after me—pulling the rope taut. His muscles are hard with anger, His handsome face dark with it.

"Chloe!"

I can hear a man's voice calling me. I squeeze my eyes shut and tug at my hair, little chunks drifting to the ground. Male hands curl over my fists, prying my fingers away from my hair. My heart is thumping fast, like a frightened animal's; I can taste tears and snot on my tongue from crying. My breathing is short, panting. I can't seem to get enough oxygen.

"Chloe, just focus on my voice. Breathe in, out. In, out. Like this." The voice demonstrates. Slow, deep breathing puffs in my ear. I try to copy him. When I crack my eyes open to slits, He's not there, only damp grass.

If I'd been looking closely, I'd seen the trampled grass. If Simon hadn't been trying to calm down, he would've seen the grass too. Derek did. But he didn't believe it.

Trembling, I crawl to my feet and scowl to myself as my face warms; I'd wet myself. Unable to look them in the eye, I flee to the house and close the backdoor behind me. I lock the doors. I double-check the windows and even the attic window.

From my bedroom, I can see Derek and Simon calming down Roxxie, whose fur is still on end. Simon leads Roxxie away; Derek lingers, surveying the landscape. He looks back at me. His hand lifts up in a wave.

And then he walks away.

I strip down, tossing my ruined panties and pajama bottoms into the hamper; I feel filthy. "I hate you," I whisper as I sit under the scalding water at 3:20. I cry a little, scrub my skin raw. I sit under the water until it runs cold before I get out, ignoring my skin as I towel off.

I don't smell like urine; I smell like Cucumber and Mint Dove body wash. I'm sliding into a new shirt, a Barbie one, when I hear my aunt rattling around. "Chloe?" she asks, knocking on the door.

"You okay? I heard the water running."

I don't want to worry her so I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind. "I'm fine. I just started my period though." She sighs, obviously relieved. I can tell she's not entirely convinced. "Okay." Her heels click on the floor as she walks away.

I slide under the covers and feel the cool, now dry sheets. Tears drip out of my eyes as I cry myself to sleep.

Was it a dream? Was it just my schizophrenia? Or was it reality, worse than any of my schizophrenic episodes?


	3. Chapter 3

Burn

Three

Ashes

I watch Aunt Lauren's car peel out of the driveway, a feeling of anxiety creeping up on me at the stormy, concerned look on her face. Ever since last night, I've been looking over my shoulder every few minutes. Expecting Him to pop up, gun in His hand, rope tied around His throat.

I drift into the kitchen. Pour myself a bowl of sugary cereal. While I stare off into the window, my cereal gets soggy and the milk turns sky-blue. My stomach's too knotted to eat. I scrape the sticky mess down the garbage disposal.

_Silly, silly Chloe. You think you can run? _His voice whispers, taunting; I grip the edge of the sink and squeeze my eyes shut. I can feel the whisper of His hands on me, stroking my back and shoulders. I whip around and open my eyes; He's not there.

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I shuffle to the foyer. The doorbell rings. My brain freezes as I remember Him ringing my doorbell, fresh and slick out of the shower, water droplet clinging to His eyelashes. Standing up on my tiptoes, I peek into the peephole.

It's Derek, standing with a spiky-haired girl who's wearing a leather pencil skirt and dark, electric makeup. Roxxie's sniffing my aunt's cactus and yelps when she picks her snout, scuttling away.

"Chloe?" Derek's rumbling voice says my name and I can't deny the way my heart skips a beat; my brain falters back to when He said my name, a teasing lilt in His voice as He taunted me.

"We know you're in there." The spiky girl elbows Derek, and he drops back to scratch Roxxie behind the ears. I debate on all possibilities: they could mug me, sick Roxxie on me…but I highly doubt that.

I unlock the deadbolt and ease the door open a tiny bit. "I'm Tori, this idiot's sister," says the spiky girl. I let my head bob in a nod of acknowledgement as she places her hand with long; black nails on the door and pushes it open. My feet are stumbling back, my chest tightening as my brain stutters.

He stood at a door at my old house, slamming His way in, radiating anger. I'd stumbled away, frightened as His dark, burning eyes stared down at me.

"Chloe?"

I blink away the shadowy memories and focus on Derek's bright eyes. I'm on my back on the floor. My head is pounding. "I-I-I—" I stutter out and slap a hand over my mouth, eyes widening in shock. My stutter came back. Tori doesn't say anything for a moment, just studies me, and then: "Are you okay?"

"F-f-f—" I nearly chomp my tongue off. "Slow down," Derek says softly and my face flames; this is so embarrassing. "F-Fine," I squeak out. Tori gives Derek a look I can't decipher. I don't understand _why _they're here, anyway.

"W-what do you want?"

A pause. Then Derek gets to his feet, gripping my hand, helping me stand. I can feel electricity shoot down my spine and I snatch my hand back. "Friendship. Peace," Tori drawls out, shooting me a look. I shrink back. "Leave me alone," I say, anger rising. How dare they barge into my house?

"My aunt and I don't _need _your damn charity! Just stay t-the hell away!" I snarl, anger bubbling over everything, especially the charity—help the new girl fit in, barge into her house—and whip the door open; the air whooshes into the house. The breeze stirs His voice. _Chloe…Chloe…_He mocks. _You'll never be rid of me, _He says. I grip the door hard, feeling the worn wood bite into my skin, my knuckles turning white.

I meet Derek's unreadable eyes.

"Stay the hell away from me and my family. We don't need your charity." Tori struts up to me, up in my face. Her breath smells like taco meat. Her narrowed eyes meet mine. "Listen here, midget, I'm doing this because Derek's taken a liking to you. I'm not here for some damn charity. Plus—" She eyeballs me, my hair and my rumpled pajamas. "You look like you need someone to talk to. Beside yourself, of course. I may be a bitch but I'm not a backstabbing bitch. Believe it or not, I know what it's like to be the new kid, to try to fit in."

She grows quiet for a minute before she continues. "But if you're gonna be a total little shit about it? Nah. Not gonna happen." _You little shit, _He yelled at me as He grabbed my arm, hard, leaving black bruises that Lauren flipped about.

"I-I'm sorry," I stutter, my face warming. I can feel Him behind me, hands tightening around my throat. "I-I-It's h-hard," I continue, feeling tears prickle my eyes. "I-I—I'd like t-to b-be friends…if that's okay."

When I look up, I see Tori's smirk and Derek's thoughtful look and I know this going to be a weird friendship.

oOo

They never ask me about what happened that caused me to move from Buffalo to Lyle, never asked about my burns or my parents and I was grateful. Instead, we talked about anything and everything.

I learned Derek was adopted at the age of five by Mr. Bae, or Kit as he prefers to be called, and doesn't remember much about life without the Bae family. Simon's mom, Kit's wife, died in a plane crash; Tori's mom, an ex girlfriend of Kit's before he met Simon's mom, bailed him with the baby, that baby grew up into Tori.

"So, Chloe," Simon says, waving around his Wii and nearly smacking Derek in the face as his little character runs on screen, "how come you moved here?"

I let my eyes drift down. Squeeze them shut and take a deep breathe. They need to hear the truth; after all they've been my friends for several months. I glance at Tori, who's watching me closely, her eyes drifting between me and her adoptive brother.

Derek growls and then his familiar, big body brushes mine, stroking my hair. "M-My d-dad died in a house f-fire. T-that's where I got my burns," I start slowly, searching for Derek's hand. His fingers lace between mine and I relax, tucking my feet under me. I'm shivering, cold even under my sweatshirt and jeans and blanket. He drapes his arm across the back of my shoulders and hugs me closer.

"B-but b-before th-that," I sigh out, feeling my chest start to loosen, "I-I met someone. He was s-sweet and kind at first." I look up into Derek's green eyes and I smile weakly. "Bu-but…he changed a f-f-few months after w-we started dating. H-he was extremely p-possessive of me, and got mad at the d-drop of a hat. I felt l-like he was bi-polar; one minute he was h-happy and lovey with me, the next h-he was calling me a cheating whore and swinging me around."

I rub my arm.

"He…was obsessive with me. Things went bad fast and I g-got out of there. He d-didn't take it too well. I heard he tried t-to k-ki-kill himself, b-but the night I went to break up with him, he flipped." I can feel the anger radiating off Derek. I stroke his knuckles. He kisses the top of my head and lingers a second too long. My stomach flutters.

"H-he attacked me. I r-remember a-as I was ru-ru—" I take a deep breath. "There was a rope under his bed. He clawed me as I-I ran d-do-down the stairs. I n-never saw him, n-not even when m-my d-dad died. He kept calling, leaving sad, broken messages, and then it was angry, blaming _me _for the break up."

I shiver and huddle.

"We moved here, me and Aunt Lauren, to get away from him and Rae, my ex-best friend who turned on me after my breakup, and the bad memories."

"What was this scumbag's name?" Tori demands, eyes flashing almost violet as her hair glints blue under the light. She looks like a pissed-off enchantress, ready to murder Him.

I look away and tears drip down my cheeks. Derek hugs me hard, pressing my face into his chest and he smells like pine needles and perspiration, oddly comforting.

"R-Royce. Royce Banks."


	4. Chapter 4

Music: Valley of the dolls-Marina and the Diamonds, I'm sorry-Flyleaf

Original Typset: Filosofia regular

* * *

Burn

Four

Letters

The last few have been torturous. Nate's constantly dragging me to Simon's soccer games; Tori and Liz make me accompany them on their weekly shopping trips but Derek, thankfully, lets me hang up in his room and teaches me to play Chinese checkers.

Those afternoons are peaceful and quiet, not loud and busy. Derek and I spend the afternoons making science at-home projects and watching sci-fi movies on his old TV. I can lounge in my pajamas pants and his old sweatshirts and feel comfortable; he lounges in sweats and wife-beaters.

"I want ice cream," he says one afternoon as we settle down to watch a classic, _Night of the Living Dead. _"Do you have cookie dough?" I ask innocently; his soft grin makes my heart speed up. It's been years since I left Royce and never once have I felt so comfortable around a boy, not even my dad.

I watch Derek take his leave and flop onto my back. "You can't _have_ him_," _Royce whispers in my ear. I jump and look around; it takes me less than a minute to realize it's _in my head. _

"Why not? Y-you aren't here anymore," I hiss, anger bubbling up like a faucet; I deserve to be happy, to be with someone who won't hurt me. "I _own_ you! Your pretty little head is _mine_!" The voice is so loud that I do a sweep of the area, making sure he isn't standing behind me.

"Maybe wh-when we were dating but not now! I'll _never _be yours again." A laugh sends my skin crawling; that laugh promised so much pain and fear. "We'll see," he tells me in a tone he used all the time, his I Get What I Want voice.

"You want the carton, right?"

Dazed, I look up at him. "Derek?" I say softly and his smile drops fast as he sets down the little cartons and flops down next to me. "You won't let him get me, will you?" I ask as tears fill my vision.

"No, never." His nostrils flare and I can see the tiny hairs on his top lip, like the fur I grew when I got too paranoid to so much as eat. I smile, relaxing as the paranoia washes away. "Thank you."

"For what?" He sits down with the cartons and starts to dig into his. I tilt my head up so I can meet his green, green eyes. "For being you."

After that, we settle in the nest of blankets and sheets to watch zombies eat people's brains.

oOo

The letter comes in the mail. Derek's sitting on the counter, trying to find green apples in the fruit basket. I'm laughing as I rip open the paper, hearing it tear. The smell of his cologne hits me strongly and I sway; Derek's arms wind around me and hold me steady.

"He sent me a letter," I whimper out quietly. "A freaking _letter_." My hands are shaking too much to pry out the wrinkled paper so Derek does it for me.

_Dear Chloe,_

_I miss you. I love you. I'll always love you. You'll always be mine. You're a rare gem, a beauty, and we're meant to be. From the moment I saw you that day, I knew you had to be mine. You looked so innocent, reading_ Speak_, your hair escaping your ponytail as you tried to ignore Rae's chattering. I remember you had a spaghetti stain on your breast and I felt a hunger to devour you…all of you._

_You were so innocent, so inexperienced, Chloe. I molded you. I was your first and you were mine. _Derek's breathing is harsher in my ear now.

Tears drip down my face and stain the paper as I tremble.

_Of course, I didn't understand why you left me. I love you. And YOU WILL BE MINE. _

_Always yours, _

_R.B._

I dissolve into tears as Derek carefully folds up the paper and tucks it back in. "Oh my god, Derek!" I shriek and turn to my best friend, hot tears spilling down my cheeks. His sad, green eyes meet mine. "Chloe," he breathes out my name on a cloud. It rings in my ears. "He's found me! Nonono!" I can't stop crying now, tears and snot running down my face, staining my lips, my cheeks; my eyes start to ache and a pounding spreads through my temples viciously.

"Chloe," Derek says again, sharply and I shrink back, mind shuffling back to a time where Royce would scream my name, over and over, his voice raw by the end, madness in his eyes—no, betrayal and anger.

"We have to give this to the police," he tells me softy, taking my hand. He strokes my skin as I dab at my eyes, wiping away tears and snot. I know I look like a mess, with my uncombed, stringy hair, dull eyes and now snot running down my face.

"Y-Yeah." My voice cracks halfway and tears build up again. "I was so careful. I didn't say a word to anyone before we left." He reaches out for me and grips my biceps, dragging me into his warm, hard chest. His heartbeat is drumming, _b-bump, b-bump, b-bump, _like a song, just for me.

He smells like perspiration and warm, fresh-out-of-the-laundry cotton and it comforts me, calming down my racing heart. His solid arms are around my back, giant hands rubbing gentle circles and his voice vibrates through his chest and into my cheek.

"Ssh, it's okay, it's okay. If he so much as _looks _at you, I'll kill him." I smile to myself as Derek sways, making me sway in turn, just the two of us swaying, dancing almost, in an imaginary breeze.

"You're mine! Always!"Royce snarls. I squeeze my eyes shut and dig my nails into Derek's back, whimpering softly. He cooes to me and strokes my hair the way Mom used to, wiggling his fingers through the tangles of knots.

Once I've calmed down, I splash water on my face and comb back my hair with my wet hands. Sniffling slightly, I watch Derek hold his hand out to me, his big hand with its scars and faint scar from a rat dog bit him when he was thirteen, and slip mine into his.

They fit like long lost puzzle pieces.


	5. Chapter 5

Soundtrack: Red Sam (Acoustic)-Flyleaf

Original typset: Sabon LT roman

Sorry if this doesn't make sense. At all. I really hate this but I wanted to update. Don't hate me ;U;

* * *

Burn

Five

Missing Mothers Return

"It'll be okay," Derek reassures me as Aunt Lauren fills out the paperwork. "Chloe Saunders?" asks a cop. I freeze, my lungs constricting with terror. He looks kind of like Royce, the same jaw, same face structure, same wavy, black hair.

"Chloe?" Derek's gripping my elbow firmly, his voice reverberating through my skull. "C-Can he c-come with me?" I ask shyly, feeling my heart pound against my ribcage, threatening to slip out between the bones and fall to the floor with a sickening splat.

The cop, Officer Reynolds, gives Derek a glance. "Nope, sorry," he says, popping the P, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "Protocol." Derek squeezes my arm reassuringly; I can feel the tears blur my eyes.

"Please?" My voice cracks and a bit of fear seeps through into my tone. Reynolds's face softens a tiny bit. "I'll see what I can do," he grunts and tells us to wait. I flinch at every loud noise, every phone ringing, and every shout of a man.

All of them sounded like Royce. Every glance looks like his profile, his face.

I hide against Derek and he strokes my hair, shushing me softly at every noise I make. "Miss Saunders, your boyfriend can come but he's not allowed to answer the questions directed at you. He'll be escorted out to be questioned separately," says Officer Reynolds.

We're led to a big room with a view of the city and a one-way mirror. "It's just like Law &amp; Order," I whisper, gawking at the mirror. Derek drags me to my seat and sits me with a chuckle. Under the table, he holds my hand.

"Miss Saunders—"

"Chloe. Call me Chloe."

A reassuring squeeze from Derek's hand makes me relax as the officer begins questioning me. "And when did you leave?"

"About a year ago. After my dad died in a house fire."

"Did you know that the suspect in the house fire arson was your, at the time, boyfriend, Royce Banks, and your friend Rachelle Rodgers?"

"N-no, sir. I didn't know they had an investigation done."

Officer Reynolds looks up, brows furrowed as his brown eyes meet mine. "Did Mr. Banks ever strike you?"

"Yes. He pushed me into a sink and I cracked my head. And then, on the night that I left, he attacked me…he had a gun." I close my eyes. "There was rope under his bed. The doctors watched him, making sure he wouldn't try to kill himself."

"Did you and Mr. Banks have any sexual relations?"

"Yes. Five."

"Did he ever force you?"

"Three of the five."

"Did you report them?"

"No."

Derek's leg is bouncing so I pat his hand and he relaxes, his green eyes clouded.

"Why?"

"He said…" My throat closes up. "H-he s-said…he'd kill me if I told."

"Did you ever conceive a child with him?"

"No, he always used protection. Said he wasn't ready for a baby. I lost my virginity to him."

"Did you know that he's been arrested?"

"No."

My palms are sweating and I pull my hand out of Derek's, wiping them on my jeans. Maybe wearing jeans and a sweatshirt in the middle of summer isn't a good idea.

"What's he been arrested for?"

"Domestic violence, stalking, trespassing, distribution illegal substances, sexual assault, attempted rape, rape, and…" Officer Reynolds looks up at me then, his face ash-pale. "…Murder."

"M-Murder?"

"He was suspected of bludgeoning his younger brother Austin's brains in with a dumbbell while he slept." My brain stutters, images of a mini Royce lying in bed, brain matter—

"He posted bail and was found not guilty. Fled to Europe for the next few years before he went to Sacramento."

A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts and a pretty woman with black hair walks in. "Ah, Miss—" begins Reynolds but the woman glares at me and Derek says, his voice strained, "Diane Enright."

Her red lips curls into a mockery of a smile. "Hello, Derek. My, my, you've certainly grown. Tell me: Does Victoria miss her mother?" My head swings back and forth, like I'm trying to watch a game of tennis.

"No, actually," Derek replies, gripping my hand fiercely under the table, "she doesn't. She knows who you are and, trust me, if she wanted to find you, she would have by now." Diane slants a look my way. "And who's this?" The smirk on her face tells me she already knows.

"Chloe." Derek growls out my name

"Saunders?" Diane tuts. "You look like your mother…aside from the burns, of course. How's Steve doing, without his loving wife?" The sneer in her voice rocks me to the core as she glares down at me with such pure hate that I'm rooted to the chair.

"He's dead, Diane," I spit out, the words flying from my lips in a spray of spittle. "Did you know that he was dead? Or that he even _had _a daughter?" I'm out of my seat now, more than agitated at this point. My blood is singing with anger that I'd thought to be buried.

"I doubt you even know what's it _like _to have a daughter, considering you gave up Tori!" I snarl, in her face now. I'm blowing up. I know I'm setting myself up for something bad. "You disgust me. You think you have _any _goddamn fucking right to march into here and speak of my mother when you abandoned your daughter like that!?" I scream, tears filling my eyes.

"You have no right to call yourself Tori's mother. You have _no _right to even speak her name or speak of Chloe's family. You have _no _right at all, Diane," Derek rumbles as he rubs my shoulders. I burst into tears.

"I'd want to kill myself too," Diane says softly, her voice laced with malice and venom and just everything negative, "if I had to come home to a stuttering fuck up of a girl and a confused, dumbass of a husband who couldn't even find his way out of the bathroom!"

"GET THE HELL OUT!" Derek snarls, the boom of his voice rooting me to the floor as I begin to cry, tears dripping down my face. "Abominations. That's what you both are."

She slams the door shut behind her and calm descended, Derek holding me and rocking me as I cry for the longest time.


	6. Chapter 6

Burn

Six

Ghosts Are Gaining

Days crawls by without a single word from Diane, which, I think, everyone was grateful for. I wouldn't—no, I _couldn't_—go back home so I hole myself up in Derek's room. My aunt stops by and tries to bring me back but I can't go, I've kicked and screamed and tried to bite her when she comes to pry me away from the only safe thing I have.

"Chloe," says a deep voice I don't recognize as someone knocks on the door. I scowl. Derek looks over his shoulder, away from his computer game, something militaristic. His damp hair's slicked back and drips water down the back of his sweatshirt, leaving damp, dark trail of cold water. His jeans were warm from the drier.

"Chloe," says my aunt in a firm voice, "you need to get out." "No!" I spit, burrowing myself deeper into Derek's nice-smelling blankets. "You won't make me, right, Derek?" I'm looking up at him with pleading eyes.

He shakes his head. "I want you to be happy and safe, not miserable and vulnerable," he murmurs as he shuts down his computer and walks over to me. I open up my arms and he crawls close.

"Chloe, Officer Malloy is here," Aunt Lauren presses and then the door shudders. "What're you doing?" Kit demands as the pounding paused, a brief snippet of conversation and then my aunt snarls, "Your menace of a boy had kidnapped her!"

"No, he hasn't!" I yell before pressing my face into Derek's chest, focusing instead on his hands rubbing up and down my back. He is hot and solid against me, familiar, safe. He won't hurt me.

"My boy is _not _a menace!" Kit spits. I whimpers and Derek hugs me tighter, cooing in my ear. I inhaled his scent, greedy. He smells clean and hot, like warm skin. If I could, I'd bottle the scent and spray it all over my clothes so I can smell him.

"He's cooped her up in that room!" my aunt argues, "and he won't let her out! He's brainwashed her!" I've never heard my aunt freak out so it's kind of funny; I start to laugh. When I peek over Derek's broad shoulder, my blood runs cold and the laugh dies in my throat.

Royce stands there, next to the window, the scratches healed and scabbing but the gun in his hands gleams like Black Death; illuminated by the window, a ghostly figure. I stutter his name. "Hello, hello, Chloe," he purrs, stepping closer. The floorboards creak under his weight.

Derek whips away from me and snarls; "Stay down!" as he lunges at Royce, tackling him to the ground. Royce laughs, shooting off a few round into the ceiling. Plaster falls to the floor. I scramble for the door and yelp as pain explodes under my eye. Blood oozes down my cheek as another shot grazes my arm.

I fumble with the lock, ducking down as the door shatters into a million splinters. "Royce is here!" I sob as I scrambles away, tears pouring down my cheeks. My face burns.

"Hands up!" yells the lead cop, advancing. Derek obeys but Royce, being the sneaky bastard he is, throws a brutal uppercut towards Derek and he falls, his nose gushing blood.

"Freeze!" the cop bellows and there's a gleam in Royce's eyes that I don't like. "Liam, how nice to see you," laughs my ex, a smile growing across his tanned face. The cop jolts in surprise. "Turned your life around, haven't you?" he sneers and I shut down all the thoughts of Royce sneering at me. Tears run down my face as my nose dripps onto my sweatshirt, leaking snot. Blood stains the fabric.

"You married?" he asks suddenly. Malloy hesitates and Royce's hand whips up. Malloy's men fire several shots and I start to scream, kicking, crying, as Derek vaults across the bed and shields me. I cry into his chest and he shushes me, rocking me.

The smell of blood and gunpowder pollutes the air as my aunt screams and screams and calls my name. I huddle closer to Derek as he kisses the top of my head, stroking my bloody hair. I cry and cry until the smoke and I see a body lying face down on the ground. "Open a window," calls one of the policemen and the smoke thins. I spot my aunt staring in horror at the body on the floor as Derek checks over my wounds, worrying about whether or not my cheek will need stitches, if my arm is okay.

"I-I think I'm fine. I-It was just a graze," I murmur, eyes trained on the dead man. "Who…?" Derek whisper as my eyes focus on the man's hair.

Dark, wavy. Thick. Heavy black seeping from his body, staining the carpet. I laugh. Royce really _is _dead. I sob until I heave and Derek keeps my hair out of the toilet. "S-sorry," I pant between retching heaves. My stomach's empty but I continue to heave, the sight of Royce Banks, thank god, dead rolling in my brain.

"That'll be one hell of a stain to get out," Simon jokes and then, "Ow! What the hell?" "You made a joke about the man we all just saw get shot!" snaps Aunt Lauren's voice.

Strings of saliva falls from my lips as Derek dampens a washcloth and pats my mouth free of disgusting bile. He pulls my hair into a ponytail as he rubs my back and makes me brush my teeth five times until there isn't a hint of vomit smell and I scrub my face until the skin grows raw.

"He's dead," I laugh softly, turning to Derek with a smile. Tears spill out of my eyes, drip down my face. I wipe my nose on my sleeve. "Yes, Chloe," Derek murmurs, drawing me closer, his hands solid and warm against my back. His voice vibrates through my entire body when he says my name and it makes me feel fuzzy and warm, nothing like Royce.

"He's gone."

The EMTs arrive and clean up the body; Derek moves me into the guest room, which had two beds and a separating wall adjoined with a door, and Aunt Lauren nearly gives herself an aneurism when I announce that I'll be staying with Kit and the gang for a few more days.

"She _is _traumatized," Tori argues, holding her ground against my aunt, who, surprisingly, backs off. Derek comes up beside me and his warm, rough hand slides into mine.

Where they belong.


	7. Chapter 7

Burn

With The Voice Of The Dead, I'm Screaming (flyleaf)

Seven

The boys and Tori grow accustomed to seeing me in their house and Aunt Lauren has given up, surprisingly. I stay out of Derek's room unless he's in there; I hate being alone where they killed Royce by myself.

At first, Tori doesn't seem to like another female in the house or, more accurately, "Derek and his girlfriend playing tonsil hockey" (I blushed and assured her we weren't anything of the sort), but she slowly grows to the idea of having another girl in the house, extra estrogen she told me. Simon's happy to have someone else to babble about comics too and Derek, well, I don't know what he thinks of me staying in his house.

As for the shooting, it's reeling in my brain still. Whenever I close my eyes, I see Royce's lifeless body, lying there, Officer Liam holding his gun out, smoke thinning out, my ears ringing. The smell of blood soaks my lungs. The smile on Royce's lips flashes.

"Chloe?" It's Derek, poking his head into the laundry room as I fold the laundry, holding one of Tori's thongs. "Dad's running out to buy some milk and sweets. Want anything?"

"Marshmallows."

He grins at me, so fast that I'm not sure I've seen anything and steps into the room. His nose wrinkles at the sight of his sister's underwear. "Ew." I snicker and quietly fold the underwear into her pile. I hold up a sail of a t-shirt and glance at the faint pit stains and add it to Derek's pile.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He's aiming for nonchalance but the continuous wiping of his palms on his jeans gives his anxiety away. His leg bounces as he hops up on the counter. "I don't know," I answer honestly because, well, I don't.

I don't know _how _to feel about Royce being dead; it isn't that much of a shock, more of a relief. I know I should feel traumatized over watching a boy get shot but I feel lighter, lighter than I had been in a very long time. The weight that has been shadowing my every step, every move, is gone.

"I'm glad he didn't shoot you," I tell Derek, picking up one of my bras and sliding it under a tanktop. "It's not like it'd matter," he mutters and I whip around to face him. "Don't you _ever _say that," I hiss and his eyes flicker down to me, surprise lingering in those green orbs.

"Why?"

"Because you mean so much to me, to the family, to everyone. You…you're my best friends and I-I don't know where'd I'd be without you," I say. He shakes his head, disbelieving. I get to my feet and grab his shoulders, standing on my tiptoes to reach them. I rattle him.

"Don't say that. You mean _everything _to me; if we hadn't met, I probably would've killed myself. I lost my mom, my dad, my skin…I can't lose you, too. I can't. I lost Royce too but I don't care. I care so much about you and-and I would've killed myself. I don't have anything to live for. My aunt's never home…my family is dead…the one man I thought I loved is dead."

Tears flood my vision and the lump jammed in my throat keeps me from speaking anymore.. I wipe at my eyes but the tears keep coming, rolling down my cheeks, burning my skin, leaving trails of black in their wake.

Derek coos to me softly and wraps me in his warmth; I continue to cry. "So don't say you aren't worth it, okay? C-Cause…I don't want to lose y-you." "I'm sorry." His breath tickles my ear as he rocks me, stroking my hair. "I'm sorry," he repeats as I cry and cry, until I'm close to heaving and have to suck in lots of air to keep from upchucking all over him. I pull away and wipe my face.

"Here."

He dampens a washcloths and wrings it out for me; he hands it off and I press it against my face, thankful for the cooling water. Minutes crawl by. I peel off the cloth and feel my face; it's warm and splotchy and my eyes are throbbing.

"I'm sorry." I wring my hands. He pinches my chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his pointer finger and tilts my face up, looking down into my eyes. I can get lost in those green depths, shining with affection. My breath hitches as he licks his lips and leans down.

He's close enough for his breath to fan across my lips as I close my eyes, willing for him to kiss me. I want his lips on mine, mouth soft and touching mine, his hands on me, holding me close. I've _wanted _it since he stumbled across me all those months ago, grass in my hair, hidden in the folds of my sweater. And then he isn't there anymore, cold air attacks me and I wish he was there, filling the iciness with his heat. "I…" he begins and the look on his face, the regret, the sadness but mostly—_mainly _the guilt, makes my heart drop to my toes. "I-it's f-fi-ine," I mutter, ducking my head down.

"Chloe, I—" he begins softly and my heart's stomped on my a soccer team wearing cleats with metal spikes. "No, no, I g-g-get i-it," I say and quickly scoops up the laundry. I brush passed him and try to blink away the tears gathering in my eyes. "Chloe," he calls after me as the tears begin to fall.

I dump the laundry quickly at their respected doors and kick the basket into the laundry room. Derek's gone.

I head up to my room and lock the door behind me. "Chloe?" It's Simon, tentatively knocking on my door. I ignore him as I begin to peel out of my clothes, wanting to wash away all the day, all the week, down the drain. Royce's bloodless body flutters behind my eyelids when I blink and I want to claw my eyes out, drag his image out of my brain, sear it out.

"Chloe?" Louder, louder. The pounding grows into smashing. "I'm fine." My voice comes out steady as I look at my reflection, a boney girl with dead eyes and washed-out hair, and touch the mirror. She smiles at me.

"Chloe, please, open the door."

"No."

"Chloe…"

"No."

Derek lets out a growl as I run the water, combing out my hair (like it would make a difference), watching the water rise and rise in the bathtub. Clear. I'll scrub all my filth off and it'll turn dingy, dirty, just like me. I'm soiled, so filthy and dark, tainted from the dead boy behind my lids.

"…Chloe…"

I screw my eyes shut as I sink into the water, ignoring Royce's voice. "You whore," he hisses softly, staring at me with blazing eyes, stripping me nude, bare to his eyes. "You lied to me. You said we'd be forever." He comes closer, his steps leaving smoldering footprints. His lip curls. "You filthy bitch."

I cried, I think. I talk. I even sing for a while; anything, _anything, _to drown out his voice, drown out his screaming and yelling. I scream back, too; I scream and curse and then I just…grow quiet.

He stands in a corner, wearing his bloody shirt, his eyes watching me like an animal, a predator, ready to tear into me, make me bleed.

"Ghosts can't hurt the living," I say to him because it's the only thing keeping his hands from drowning me, his hands on my breasts, holding me under the water while the air fights to get to my lungs. His eyes glow as he smiles darkly. Blood stains his teeth, like red paste. "No, but the living can."

I slip under the water to drown out his voice, thankful he can't touch me. _No, but the living can. No, but the living can. No, but the living can. The living can. Living can. _


	8. Chapter 8

Burn

Crisis

Eight

**(Derek! POV) **

Chloe's gone quiet, especially since Royce. She doesn't want to talk about it, she says quietly to everyone during breakfast this morning. She's eaten very little, picking at her breakfast like a bird, and retreats into her room when she excuses herself.

Dad's getting worried, I can tell by the way he stares vacantly at her seat. Hell, even _Tori's_ worried about Chloe. And Tori _never _worries about anyone, at least not outwardly. "Chloe?" I knock on her door. A sniffle. A sob. My heart breaks.

"Chloe," I say, firmer. "Go away," she screams. Something crashes to the floor. She moans and then begins to cry brokenly, like she's upset. "Chloe!" I slam into the door. It swings open as I ram forward and I check myself, stumbling back.

She looks like a ghost, her pale hair cascading down her back, her gaunt face staring up at me, sunken eyes hollow; her face is vacant, expressionless. Chills slide down my spine as I stare at her over sized sweatshirt that hung off her, baggy tights rolled up over her bony ankles three times.

She looks like a skeleton, her cheekbones cutting her skin and every bone visible. She reminds of one of those anorexia posters during health class, sad, blank eyes and gaunt faces, able to fold themselves into a desk drawer; she looks nothing like the girl I've known.

"What?" Even her voice is feathery, soft. She wipes her nose on her sleeve. "Chloe," I murmurs as I lean down and grab her face, stroking her jutting cheekbones with my thumbs. A lump forms in my throat as I feel the fragile bones, the soft skin, translucent with spider-web veins spreading across the pale sea. A sob rips in my chest, tearing it into halves.

A little life flickers in her eyes as she shushes me and strokes my hair out of my eyes. Her bony fingers make my throat ache; her collarbone's like hallowed out bowls, deep enough to collect rainwater. A noise chokes out of my mouth as I drops to my knees and wraps my arms around her waist.

Her hipbone dig into my cheek like the handle of a butter knife. I can feel every bone in her back, the little knobs of her spine, the planes of her shoulder blades. She's tiny—and not in the good way. I breathe in her scent as my face presses into her belly; she smells clean and moist, like hot water.

Her fingers stroke down my skull, down my neck, traces something onto my shoulder blades. "Derek, what's—" she begins but I cut her off. "We're all worried about you. You never heat, all you do is sleep. Cry. I can hear you talking to someone."

"It's no one."

My head lifts. My chin rests on her belly. She takes a deep breath, lets out in a sigh. It ruffles my hair and smells like humid air. "No one?" When she nods, I clench my jaw. She's point blank _lying_.

"I think I'm going crazy," she whispers as she presses her cupped hands against her eyes and begins to cry. I shoot to my feet. She shrinks back like she's _afraid _of me, shook her head and presses a thin, bony hand against her mouth. Tears fill her sad eyes. "You _aren't_," I say firmly. Uncertainty dances across her face as she shuffles back and slams the door.

I knock. Once. Twice. No response. "Chloe," I say tightly, my voice straining. Knock, knock. Silence. It's like talking to a ghost, a corpse with alive eyes.

oOo

The first uppercut hits the bag's left side, sending it reeling. The next pushes it into the wall. My headphones are on and I'm gone, gone, stuck in that space I live for, breathe for. I bounce on my feet, drop kicking the punching bag. The bar that I've installed to hold it up rattles dangerously. Plaster falls and layers the ground.

I swings hard and the chain snaps, sending the bag flying into the door. I pull off my headphones and wipe the sweat from my cheeks, swallowing hard as I gulp down air.

"Derek?" My eyes drift to the empty doorway, watching the bony fingers clutching the frame as she fidgets. Her nose is bright red and her cheeks are tear-stained; she looks off kilter. Her eyes are glazed and she looks sweaty, gnawing on her top lip. Is she sick?

"Ch—" I begin but she interrupts me.

She takes one step forward…and falls to the ground. My heart stops the minute she collapses; hoarsely, I scream for Dad. I scrabble closer to her and sink to my knees, frantically searching for a pulse. It's weak, beating against my fingertips like a butterfly's wing.

That's when I notice it. Blood soaks her sleeves and pools under her arms. Holding my breath, I push up her sleeve and nearly break down. Her arm is a ragged, tangled mess of cuts, bleeding profusely; she's so thin, I can see every bone in her hand and wrist.

Her veins stand out like vibrant blue rivers, a map under translucent skin, like a porcelain doll. "Oh my god," whispers Tori as she gapes down at Chloe. "Give me your shirt," I say.

She looks shocked. "Give me your fucking shirt! I need to staunch the blood!" I snap and she whips it off, leaving herself in only a bra. Hands shaking, I wrap the fabric around the exposed arm and the blood stains it horribly.

Tears fill my eyes and blurs my vision as Dad arrives and drops down beside me. "What…what happened?" he asks me weakly, licking the sweat from his top lip. He looks like he was going to be sick. "She came in, to talk to me I guess, and—and she collapsed." My voice comes out thin and wary as sweat drips down my face.

"Call 9-1-1, Simon. Now," Dad orders loudly. I glance at him, shocked. Never _once _had he _ever _raised his voice, never yelled or bellowed; a chill settles into my chest as I stare at Chloe's pale face.

Sweat gleams on her skin as she breathes slowly, like she's sleeping. My fists clench. How could this have happened? I bite my tongue until I taste blood.

"You did this." I whip around and spot Royce standing there, eyes blazing; his hair is damp and his clothes wiped down. A red stain blossoms on his chest, where he'd been shot. "What?" I hiss.

"This is _your _fault, you big dumbass."

My jaw clenches.

"You drove her to this," he sneers back and smoke peels off his skin is wisps. "What're you—" I growl. "Derek! Who're you talking to?" Tori asks. My head swings her way and then back again. Royce is gone.

He is all in my head.


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry about not updating for a while. I went on vacation and didn't have decent wifi.

* * *

Burn

Explanation

Nine

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _What _was _that? I try to open my eyes but my eyelids are heavy, like weights had been glued to them. I feel like someone had hacked my arms into pieces and my entire body aches all over, like I've been run over with a dirtbike.

"Oh god," says a voice next to me. Or above me? "Chloe, Chloe, my precious baby," the voice sobs. "How could you have _let this happen_?" The voice is female and growing shriller, dragging me closer and closer to full consciousness. "I didn't let _anything_ happen!" snaps a new voice, male and deep.

I can feel the heat of lights on my skin, feel the scratchy blanket on my legs, a light fabric draped over my body (a dress?), a hand holding mine firmly. Another smooths away my hair. Someone kisses my forehead.

"Chloe, please, if you can hear me," whispers the woman's voice close to my ear, "_wake up_. Please." I relax slowly and my eyelids creep open inch by inch. I see black and green and red-brown and blue.

The lights are searing and I turn away from them. "Shut off the lights!" the man's voice hisses. The lights clicks off and in the dim, I can see him. A man with black hair and worried green eyes, acne staining his cheeks and a nasty looking pimple on his chin, sits by my right hip, holding my hand tightly.

Someone moves into my vision and a red-brown-haired woman leans above me, dripping tears down onto my cheeks. Her blue-grey eyes are glossy and bloodshot, like she's been crying a lot. _Mom._

"Chloe, Chloe," she sobs as she wraps her arms around me. I blink hard. Who were they? D…L…AL. Names. "Who are you?" I blurt. They were so familiar but I can't name them.

"You don't…remember us?"

"Her brain's all foggy. It's the drugs," murmurs the man. "Aunt Lauren," whispers a voice tauntingly, so close yet so far away. I can't see anyone.

"Aunt…Lauren?" I ask slowly, testing the words, shaping them with my mouth, sounding out the letters slowly. My dry skin peels and cracks. The woman wails and throws her thin, boney arms around me. She smells like soap.

"And you're…" I trail as I look over at the man sitting.

_"_Derek," the whispering voice laughs.

"D-Derek?" With the pain of a pickaxe in my skull, a myriad of pictures explodes and everything comes rushing back. Royce, Derek, Rae, my arms…

"I'm s-sorry," I mumbles, pulling the blanket up to my chin as tears burn my eyes. "What for?" Derek is hovering above me, worry clouding his eyes. Something moves in the corner and I see Royce.

Damn him.

Royce is wearing a black sweater and jeans, the ones with holes in the knees, and his hair drips water onto the floor. _Plip. _No one else seems to notice him. _Plip. _Aunt Lauren has to leave, her pager going crazy. Derek sits at my side. _Plip. _Royce crosses the room, gliding on air, steam peeling off. Red blossoms on his chest, stained his sweater darker than ebony. _Plip. _A puddle of pink water pools at the hem of his jeans and under his bare feet. His tattoo is still there.

"What's wrong?" Derek asks me slowly, eyes flickering to his left, where Royce hovers, too close for comfort. "_Hello_, Chloe. Looks like the good old man Upstairs didn't want you to join me in the after life," he laughs, pale teeth gleaming like bleached shells, only, you know, pointy like a demon's.

I shift and the sheets rubs against my bare legs. "It's freezing in here," I say to Derek, pretending not to notice Royce. His eyes blaze with fire as he stalks up to me and even in death, he is just as intimidating. I flinch back, away from him.

"You're _mine_, whether you want to admit it or _not,_" he whispers in his soft voice, the one that scared the living hell out of me every time he used it. I stiffen and grip Derek's hand as tight as I could. Bones press against my paper-thin skin. Royce isn't real. He can't hurt me.

"Ah, yes. The age old death-living barrier. Remember my little friend?" Royce levels himself horizontal and pretends to lay down in a recliner, buffing his nails.

Which one? He had tons, being the son of a mobster after all. I begin to sweat and notice Derek's rigid stance, his eyes looking around widly.

"Which one?" I ask lowly, my voice weak and wavering as Royce pauses in buffing his nails and glances down at Derek with disinterest, his eyebrows merely lifting an inch in questioning before they lower again. Curls fall into his forehead and eyes.

"A girl," my ex answers, smiling predatorily. The merry-go-'round of nausea passes as I search my brain desperately for a memory. He had _many _female "friends". All of whom slept with him.

"Does this _friend _have a name?" Derek shifts closer to me, confusion written on his face as he follows my side of the conversation. "What's going on?" Royce hops off his imaginary recliner and gets in Derek's face. Horror washes through me as he spits, "Mind your own damn business, you piece of fat, ugly shit." He turns to me and shakes his head from side to side, like he was disappointed and scolding me.

I feel two inches tall under his blazing, penetrating glare. "You know," he chuckles and my brain stops searching as I find his dark eyes. "_Her?_" I squeak. My nails bite into Derek's rough palm.

"Yes, _her_." My ex glances over his shoulder, like he was being summoned for someone, and his lip curls. A look of fury washes over his face and he vanishes. "I'm not crazy," I tell Derek.

He doesn't say anything, just rubs my knuckles with his thumb softly, the soothing sensation nearly putting me to sleep.

I'm sure whatever Royce had planned, someone's bound to get hurt. Bad. Being a mobster's son meant you know where to hide the bodies when someone "dies" under mysterious circumstance; I'm just hoping it won't have to come in handy.


	10. Chapter 10

Burn

Death's Sweet Embrace

Ten

Royce never leaves me, even as I drift in and out of consciousness, sleeping away the horrible burning in my arms and my dad visiting from Berlin. Royce slips into my dreams, too; every time it's the same.

I stand in a clearing, dressed in a white hospital gown, my arms and legs scratched to ribbons as I try to catch my breath. A breeze crawls through the forest and rustles trees and, for reasons unknown to me, I take off, my legs flying. Trees claw at my hair, my clothes, yank and tug and poke.

"You'll never escape me," Royce laughs and his voice echoes eerily, bouncing off the open space and floating in mid air. I pick up the pace, ignoring the stitch in my side as I jerk right and trip over something. A mouthful of wet earth fills my mouth and I sit up, sputtering as I turn and stifle a scream.

A woman's body is lying on the forest floor, her head turned away from me, her red nightshirt see-through from rain. She's tan, like maybe she gets out a lot, and long, blond hair swims around her face, obscuring it. An ache builds up in my throat as I look at her and my eyes rest on her socks…with giraffes. Slowly, I crawl forward and touch her, her cold skin burning my fingertips. She doesn't stir.

And then I roll her over and the scream clogs in my chest. Pale blue eyes stare lifelessly at me, framed by pale lashes, set in a tiny, round face that once glowed with life. Liz.

I'm so busy and focused on Liz, oh God, dead Liz, not living Liz, that I don't notice him until he has a fistful of my hair, yanking me viciously to my feet. His voice whispers in my ear as he holds the knife against my throat.

"I missed you," he growls with a laugh. "I missed you," he croons even louder. Terror rushes through me as Liz rises up off the ground. Terror seizes me as her lifeless eyes blink, her head turning in my direction. A scream erupts in my throat.

"Chloe." It's a man's voice that says my name as I jolt awake, heart pounding. Actually, it is just Derek leaning over me, holding onto my shoulders gently. "Chloe, it's a dream." My cheeks feels damp and my fingers comes away slick with tears as I sit up. I can taste bile on my tongue as he hands me a paper cup of metallic water.

As soon as the rim touches my cracked lips, he speaks. "They're sending you…away."

I freeze, blink hard to rid the blur covering him, and shake my head. "Aunt Lauren—" I begin firmly but he cuts me off. "She couldn't convince them not to, even as executive chief of staff." The water churns in my stomach. "I didn't do any—"

The look he cuts me is cold like ice and my skin prickles. "Yeah," he says, looking away to stare out the window. Outside, the sky is nearly pitch-black, gushing down icy torrents of rain that make me wince just looking at the unfortunate souls caught down below. "You did a lot."

I stare down at my cup, staring at the slight of my reflection and feel tears fill my eyes. Before he can call me out on crying like a wimp, I settle back down onto the bed and yank up the covers over my head. "Chloe," he whispers fiercely and shakes me. The tears that escape burn my cheeks as I listen to him sigh, shuffle around and then settle into the chair beside my hospital bed.

I rub the gauze layering my arms like sweater sleeves and fall asleep with my mouth open.

oOo

It's dark outside when they wake me up. Two nurses shake me awake and I blink away the wisps of a nightmare involving Royce, who, actually, is mooning the female nurse and doing the pelvic thrust at her. It's the little things like that that made me fall in love with him.

"Where…" I begin hesitantly as the female nurse helps me into a heavy sweatshirt that Derek had obviously left; it's about three hundred sizes too big on my tiny frame and says _Souza _on the back in big, loopy letters. It also smells strongly of testosterone.

"They're transferring you to a mental institution," Royce tells me with a twisted curl of his mouth, mocking a smile. In his eyes lay a glint, scary as he walks beside me, hands in his pockets. He's dressed in a white t-shirt that hides nothing and tight jeans; with every step, his bicep tattoo flashes at me. It looks like three lightening bolts, intertwined with an Egyptian eye, with numbers in the pupil.

"Transferring you," says the male nurse, pulling my hair out of the sweatshirt. I stare at my feet the entire time they lead me, comfortingly, down to an unmarked white van loitering outside the automatic doors. A guy about college age drives and the nurses give me a shot, even though I say I'll cooperate.

"It's just a precaution," says the driver, tipping his hat. He looks kind of like Nate, except with really bad acne and curly, pale-red hair pulled into a ponytail.

They nurses buckle me into the front seat as ice chugs through my veins, slowing my thought process. I slump against the window, staring at the pouring rain. My sneakers are soaked. I shiver as the driver adjusts the heat all the way and blasts it. "Here." He reaches behind him and pulls out a comforter that he tucks over me.

"Drive, Danny, " the female nurse whispers. My head lolls as I struggle to stay awake, feeling lighter and lighter. It's my cold feet that goes first. They just feel light and not even there; next is my legs, and then my waistline, and then my stomach. Coldness spreads from my fingertips up, to my elbow, to my shoulder.

I shiver as my waist grows numb and light and that same sensation crawls up my stomach, my ribcage. Blackness begins to swarm. The driver strokes my hair gently, whispering, "It'll be okay, Chloe."

"It never is," sneers Royce. His eyes look demonic in the street light as he crouches on the hood of the car and pitched forward, crashing through glass. He laughs as my lids bob.

Everything goes black.

PART ONE: END


	11. Chapter 11

\Burn

(Part Two: Torn To Pieces)

Eleven

The Ghost Is Here

It is raining when she steps off the bus and she hugs her sweatshirt around her tighter. Glancing around, she sees no one and hurries.

The car that Royce had left is still there; she tucks her bags into the back and slides into the driver's seat. She's surrounded by him, the memory of him, and she leans her forehead against the steering wheel; breathing through her nostrils, she breathes him in and lives all these memories.

Kissing holding hands. Crying hugging making out telling him she loved him. Love love love all around. His mouth on hers. His hands sliding under her shirt, touching and touching and she felt and drowned in him.

"Let's go find some little blondes," she whispers to the air and turns on the ignition, feeling the seat purr beneath her. It's a lovely sensation, reminding her of her first time with Royce. Royce who's gone gone gone now. Gone and dead and six feet under and taking a dirt nap. Tears fill her eyes as she buckles up and heads out.

She'll go to the motel and sleep away the hurt.

oOo

It's still raining when she wakes up. Her face is damp and she's holding his letterman to her chest. The sun is too bright, the room is too empty and everywhere is too dark and dreary. It's almost too much too much not enough.

"Good morning," she says to the ceiling, staring up at the water stains and cobwebs hanging in the corners. "Get up," she mumbles as she forces her achy, tired body out of the tangled blankets. Her shorts are hiked up, her tank top is twisted all over her chest and the back is stuck in her panties waistband. Her hair is in her mouth, sticking behind her earrings and sticking up actually, like a lion's mane.

Royce used to say she reminded him of a lion, when they laid there, basking in their after glow. She would always walk around naked and he'd admire her and say, "You look like a lion, all golden and tawny and magnificent." Tawny golden slinky—exactly like a lion. Golden skin golden hair golden golden golden everything, golden skin and golden hair and golden eyes golden tawny bronze strong and resolute.

It was as she strips down for a quick, lukewarm shower that she notices how well her latest tattoo is doing. It's still red and blistery but you can clearly see what it says. _Lions make you strong. _It's written in calligraphy on a scroll across her shoulders; she'd gotten it the day before Royce died. His uncle was hysterical; his brother clung to her like a bear, raking his nails down her bare back; his hair irritated her tattoo wrapping.

"I won't let her go," the girl whispers, touching her fingertips against the mirror. She can almost see him, hovering behind her, calm and gentle, but dangerous, very, very frighteningly so dangerous. His smile is sharp and brittle; his eyes are cold and hard and she knows what she has to do.

She has to kill Chloe Jennifer Saunders.

Sinking into the water, she closes her eyes and hums the song he'd sing to her quietly "Carry On My Wayward, Son" by Kansas.

It's their theme song.

oOo

"Damn Buffalo," she grumbles as she stomps and kicks her feet, clapping her hands. Hood pulled up over her face, she looks like a lonely shadow person, standing in the rain, and totally _not _like she's here to frighten and torture someone who killed her love.

The rain is unrelenting, pounding and popping against her, weighing her down. The water is weights, weighing her down, dragging and clawing and shoving her into the ground. Her fingers are cold; her lips are cracked; her teeth chatter. Everything is so damn wet and cold and she misses the sunshine and warmth and Royce's hands and lips his 2 lips 2 hands on her. Breathing her in and sucking the air from her lungs, breaking and molding and—

Coughing into her elbow, she turns away and inhales the scent of him lingering in his sweatshirt. This is what he wants her to do; she can see him now, brilliant and glowing against the darkness of the weeping sky, bright and vibrant and so sosososo beautiful and she's crying, smiling. "Go and see her. Make sure she knows you mean her harm."

He grins.

She grins

They head in.

"I'm here to visit Chloe Saunders," she tells the nurse, smiling a smile that disarms and charms and wins over hearts; she knows she's attractive, just like Royce, and he taught her how to disarm people. Her tawny hair is cold and wet and dripping down her back; she shivers. "Room 207. Second floor. Who are you, if I may ask?" The man is smiling pleasantly but his eyes say something else.

"A friend of hers. Her aunt told me what happened and I just _had _to come visit." She forces pseudo cheer into her voice, flashing her best good girl smile, smiling so wide, so bright that her cheeks hurt—well, actually, _everything_'s been hurting since Royce left her; everything: her chest, her arms, her eyes, her throat, her heart which screams and cries and makes her head ring.

"She's one of my _best _friends." She opens her eyes wide, wide wide wide so wide in fact that she's afraid she looks a bit too much like an anime character and lowers it a bit. The guy's smile is greasy now. "Here." He hands her a towel, smiling slick and evil and it leaves her feeling shaky.

"Thanks." Smile so big it hurts.

She heads down the way he points, following the numbers. There's coughing and hacking and crying and someone starts to scream. Crawling feelings slide down her back, cold and evil and it makes her want to curl up and cry and just run away. Royce looks at her. She looks at him.

"Go on."

They slip into the elevator. It's so e m

p t

y

and she's overwhelmed with the need to run. "It's okay. She deserves it. She left me. You stayed. I love you," Royce says and she feels warmth flooding her as he tries to kiss her cheek.

The door pings.

She steps out. Royce trails. In his wake, there are dragon snaps, first white little flowers pretty delicate like Chloe and then they're shriveling up, turning black, curling in on itself…_dying. _

She takes a deep breath and eases into the hallway. People are scattered about, limping along the hallway, speaking in quiet voices. A loud wail makes her skin prickle. Crying. Screaming. A doctor rushes passed. She closes her eyes. Swaying sways. Her legs move. She can't see which way she's going; Royce is leading her. She turns corners, jogs down hallways. He hovers.

She eases open a door. The room is dark and quiet and dimly lit. She can hear breathing. She slips in, making her footsteps light and she flicks on the light. The other girl stirs. Strawberry blonde curls stick out.

"Hello, Chloe."

Chloe sits up fast. Horrified, bloodshot blue eyes.

"Rae?"


	12. Chapter 12

OOC! Chloe

Burn

Twelve

I'll sleep until I die

Panic rocks through me as I bolt up, staring into cold, angry dark eyes. Rae's standing at the foot of my bed, glowering at me, wearing Royce's sweatshirt, damp hair dripping rivulets down her twisted, anger-mangled face. She hasn't changed a bit.

Her gaze is fixed on me, her chest rising and falling as Royce shimmers behind her, grinning wickedly, his hair damp and his clothes dry. That ugly tattoo keeps flashing at me as he walks closer, a hissing and popping growing louder with each step. His eyes are cold and lifeless as he smiles, slowly, his teeth sharper than I remember them ever being.

"I searched high and low for you, Chloe," Rae whispers, gliding closer, a ghost in the form of an angel, coppery hair and bronze skin and a beautiful smile with rows of sharp teeth and acidic words that'll tear me into pieces. I press my back against the pillow, a frantic scream rising in my throat.

"R-Rae…" I begin softly and then she's close to my face, straddling me, bringing her fist back as far as she can. "Don't you _dare _say my name. It's _your _fault my Royce is gone," she hisses, madness gleaming in her eyes as her braids begin to unravel and she looks like she's the one who belongs in the nuthouse.

I bite my cheek as I feel the heat of her body weighing down on my pelvis, her plush thighs squeezing my hips and hot beads of water from her body dripping onto me. I shiver. _She's _real_, _I realize as she outlines my lips with her finger, following the cupid's bow and the curve of my bottom lip.

I stare up at her, wide-eyed. The light in here is too bright and it's hurting my eyes, making them water and tears run down my face. My arms ache as she wraps her fingers around my jaw, crushing my cheeks between them, and begins to kiss my face, slow and taunting. My forehead, both my eyebrows. Her mouth is cold.

She's kissing my eyelids. Royce is smiling like they share a secret. I slowly bring my arms up and touch her back; she stiffens against me. "If you're going to kill me," I say softly, "then do it already, Rae." Royce frowns at me, like I've disappointed him, a bad, bad girl, and he doesn't know what to do with me anymore, at his breaking point.

I close my eyes and feel her weight lift off me for a split second, and then come back. She's taken off the sweatshirt and her breasts nearly spill from her thin scrap of tank top, round and so much larger than my own. Her collarbone sticks out to my blurry vision; the skin is red like blood and there's black scrawl across it.

_Lions make you strong._

Her eyes are wet. Tears drip down her cheeks and splash on her breasts. I want to wipe them away. She leans down, her breath tickling my dry lips, and I can see Royce raging behind her.

Her lips are salty.

oOo

"Wake up," says a man's voice and I'm shaken roughly. I jerk awake and spot the nurse, a patchy-faced man in his early thirties with a receding hairline. He looks cranky and half-awake. A quick squinting glance at the clock says it's 12:30.

"W-Where am I?" I sputter as I sit up, touching my mouth. There's a dark, bloody taste on them that wasn't there before but the man doesn't seem to notice; he instead tears off the blankets. "Lyle House for the Mentally Disturbed," he reads, pointing to the sign above the tiny window and I run a hand through my gnarled hair.

"You have visitors. Get dressed."

He turns and takes his leave, never looking back. "Good morning, Vietnam!" cries a boy's voice. Royce is in the corner of the room, dressed in only jeans, and I'm staring at the gaping hole in his chest, pink and raw, dripping with blood.

_Last night was a dream_. I rub my eyes and pull myself from the lumpy bed, searching for the sweatshirt and a pair of pants; I cram my head through the sweatshirt and wiggle on the sweats. They're far more comfy than any I own.

"Tell Rae I say hi," I tell him quietly as I splash water on my face and wonder why my lips are bloody. I look the same, curls sticking up and tangled, dull blue eyes, pale skin.

"You bitch," he snarls and I watch as his image wavers, like interference. There's a hissing like cockroaches as it gets colder, like ice. Frost creeps across the mirror, marring my face.

"I know. Just like all your other bitches," I say. What's wrong with me? What happened to me? My mouth is moving, the voice is mine, but the words aren't.

"You just wait, whore," he sneers and his face turns redder and redder, veins bulging in his temples and his jugular throbbing out of his skin. I remember the "I'm about to blow up and beat the shit out of you" pose from when he was alive. I watch him in the mirror, his reflection warped and clouded by the frost, flakes peeling off and showering my knuckles.

"Are you done now?" I say, mouth twisting to the side. "You're going to regret this," he tells me. "That line's been overused so many times."

I flip off the light and head out the door, ignoring him the best I can.

oOo

"Chloe," Rae says pleasantly when I sit down, sipping a carton of juice contently. "Hi," I saw, meeting her dark-rimmed eyes. She looks hell of a lot better than she had when I last saw her, fuller, her breasts larger and her hips wider, her cheeks glowing. "Are you pre—"

"No," she laughs like we're best friends and she hadn't slept with my abusive ex-boyfriend the day he ditched me, "I'm just getting some."

"Oh."

My cheeks flame. "So, tell me, Chloe, how does it feel to be the victim of your own stupid choices?" She's all smiles as I stare at her. "The blood on your lips isn't yours; it's animal blood from last night."

"Last…" My cheeks burn even more. "I told you last night what I intend to do." I cross my arms. "Enlighten me."

"I will end you, slowly, until you can't take the torture anymore and I've ripped everyone from you just like you ripped Royce from me," she tells me, turning and walking away as Derek, Aunt Lauren, and the rest of my gang come filing in, excitement on their faces.

I stare at Rae's bronze back, shown off by a low-backed halter top.

_I will end you. _


	13. Chapter 13

Burn

Thirteen

Rattling Skeletons

My hands are shaking so I hide them under the table as Aunt Lauren crowds close to me, overwhelming with her fruity perfume. "How are you? Are they nice? Oh, you looks so—" She's babbling a million miles per hour and it's giving me a headache. I put a hand up, ignoring my trembling and close my eyes.

"Rae's here," I whisper, remembering the feel of her wet curls touching my cheeks, her cold mouth. The shaking gets stronger and my teeth start to chatter. "She came in last night," I continue, my tongue feeling thick as I struggle to talk. It's like there's a brick being forced down my throat, trying to dam the words that want to rise out of my mouth.

"She's going to end me."

Derek grabs my hand tightly and I realize his hand is shaking too; his green eyes are cloudy but the thin line that's his mouth tells me he's angry and a little afraid. Panic lights a fire inside my chest. Tears fill my eyes. "She did something to me…forced something down my throat last night. She walked right passed you on your way in."

"Why don't we call the poli—" Simon begins to suggest but the hysteric wall rises up and slams. I think of how she slipped into my room, probably charming the pants off the receptionist, and snuck into my room, hiding the blood somewhere. "That won't help." My voice cracks. "She's untraceable, plus she's with Royce. Was. _Was_ with Royce. She learned from the best on how to avoid police."

Something how and wet drips down my face. I watch the rain fall from my eyes and drip onto Derek's hand. He's holding mine fiercely, his fingers swallowing mine, his sweaty palm pressed up against mine. He gets down on one knee and all the breath in my lungs stops, frozen with shards of ice. "Chloe," he says softly, his deep voice making something primal curl inside me, "I swear to you she won't lay a hand on you."

A maniacal laugh bubbles out. Aunt Lauren's staring at me in horror. "She already has. How can you protect when you aren't here?" I say and my voice sounds far away to my ears. Wincing, I try to pull my hands out of his but he tightens his grip. "I _will_," he growls and I smile sadly.

"I know," I whisper softly, closing my eyes and he rests his forehead against mine. "I know." His hands are damp and hot as he holds mine; it comforts me to know that he doesn't care but it makes me angry to know that he'd be so reckless, thinking he can take her on. He doesn't know Rae like I do.

oOo

The summer of middle school, Rae moved in next door. For the longest time, it had been just myself, Beth and Kari so having another girl our age move in had been the highlight of our summer. While Kari's stepmom and Beth's aunt talked with Rae's mom and dad, we introduced ourselves.

"I'm Kari." Kari stepped forward and smiled, waving her arms around while Beth rolled her eyes, standing taller than the energetic redhead. "Beth," offered the black-haired girl. "And this is Chloe!" Kari reached behind her and dragged me forward. I stared up at the new girl, hands on her hips.

Rae was a bombshell to be. She was tall and a few pounds heavier than Kari; her coppery hair was hanging around her face in curls and clashed against her caramel skin. She was wearing a bikini and big, blocky sunglasses covered half of her face. She pouted her lips at us and then broke out into a smile.

That hot summer, there was one more Coke to carry back when we swam, one more hand to deal cards, another person to invite to sleepovers. Beth moved before school started, to Nevada, because her aunt got offered a new job. Kari got shipped off to boarding school. That just left me and Rae. Without Kari and Beth, Rae was my only friend. I put up with her frightening mood swings, snippy attitude, and mean comments because I didn't want o be alone and being with her was better than having no one.

Middle school came.

While she took to the popular crowd, the kids that everyone knew and crowded around magnetically, I chose the shadows, staying in the background and out of the light. But Rae insisted that I hang out with her and because of that, I was in the spotlight, grabbing all sorts of attention and absolutely hating it. The guys leered and the girls sneered and I wanted to disappear.

The guys never really made a move, except a few. Royce Banks was one of them, speaking to me quietly at a theatre party as we sat on the steps. The music was loud and I felt sick, a push-pull in my stomach from too much heat and the sickly smell of his too sweet Axe. "I have to go," I told him hurriedly as I tried not to heave. I swayed and he caught me, gently. I felt dizzy as the heat of his hands seeped through my jeans, where he gripped my hips a little too tightly. He was smiling, charming me without me even realizing it.

"I'll drive you," he offered, smiling wider. His teeth were very white. I managed a weak smile and stood on my tip toes to look for Rae. I couldn't see her. "Have you seen Rae?" I asked, leaning closer to him to be heard over the music. His hand touched my back as he leaned into me, his lips touching my ear. He was so near that it made me a bit nervous. "No, I haven't all night. I'm sure if you left a voicemail on her phone that she'd understand," he said.

I wasn't so sure but I went with it anyway. As I weaved my way through the throng of people, people whispered behind their hands.

I ignored it.

I shouldn't have gone with Royce. He ruined my life after I let him in.

oOo

"Stay with me, Derek," I beg as he turns to leave. His green eyes look at me, a sad smile playing on his lips. "I hope it's okay," he says shyly, smiling at me as he takes off his sneakers and lays down next to me.

I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.


	14. Chapter 14

Burn

Fourteen

Therapy

Therapy is held in a cozy, brightly lit room with tons of cushiony chairs and couches. The doctor is a tiny, rat-eyed woman with red hair, scribbling furiously in a notebook; the rest of the group are various kids. All sorts of kids. There's ten kids in all; six girls and four boys.

Two girls crouch on a recliner, braiding each other's hair; the first one is small with bad acne on her arms and the other is round, with watery eyes and a smoker's cough. My eyes scan the scenery. A girl sits by the window, staring out tiredly with her mouth opening and closing, her head bobbing; another one lays on one of the boy's laps, weaving something out of yarn. The last two girls sit in the circle of chairs, one on the floor, long hair being pulled back into numerous hairstyles by her friend in the chair. They're both pretty but the one in the chair is startlingly thin and the other one keeps picking at a scab on her leg.

The boys crowd around each other; two boys are playing thumb war next to the braiding girls on the couch. A sole one sits in a corner by himself, ignoring everyone. There's one with a girl's head in his lap.

"Oh, good, Chloe," says the doctor, smiling wide. One of her teeth is crooked and I focus on that instead of staring into her beady little eyes. "Everyone, take a seat," she tells us and I pick a seat in the middle, somewhere between too far and too close, facing the window and shafts of sunlight piercing through the glass.

The extremely thin girl takes her seat next to her scabby-kneed friend, twittering quietly. The Braid girls sit next to the Thumb War boys and Shaggy Boy, the one who'd been sitting with the yarn girl. Loner Boy sits next to me; Window Girl and Yarn Girl sit by each other and Window Girl lays her head on Yarn Girl's shoulder.

"Okay. We have a new member here," the doctor says excitedly, clapping. All eyes slowly turn to me and I hug my knees to my chest, staring down at the fraying thread on my sleeve. "I'm Dr. Gil," the woman says with a smile, flashing that crooked tooth; I absently wonder if I punched her would it straight out.

"Why don't you tell us your name?" Dr. Gil sits in her chair in the center and gets out her notebook, ballpoint pen posed above the paper, ready to jot down my every twitch. I stare at the thread, wondering if I'll unravel too because my throat is so dry and I really don't want to tell all these hungry strangers my name. I close my eyes and breath deep, filling my lungs with air and I can hear them crackle, inflating balloons.

"Chloe." My voice comes out scratchy and pitchy, like I'm losing my voice but I've said in a rush, a short huff of air, and she can't make me say my name again. "Why don't we tell Chloe our names?" Dr. Gil suggests in a cheery voice.

"I'm Amber and that's Mila," Yarn Girl says with a smile, brushing away her brittle blonde hair. Her dark-haired counterpart gives me a half smile, revealing yellow teeth and raw gums. "Brady and that's Peter," says Thumb Way boy 1 with brown eyes; Thumb Boy 2 peers at me with eyes too big for his small face. "I'm Ramon," offers Loner, his eyes staring deeply at me. "I'm Nate," offers the Shaggy Kid with a smile. His dimples show passed his freckles.

"Is that everyone?" Dr. Gil asks, flipping through the pages on a clipboard she pulled from under her chair. She chews her lip, eyes flickering between the clipboard and the chairs. "Yes." She claps her hands. Ramon rolls his eyes and Nate snickers, hiding his smile behind a deformed hand.

"What are you in here for?" Nate whispers, switching seat so he's next to me. He's invading my space, my sanctum, and I can smell him, the heat that his body gives off and his hot breath and his hot, hot sweat. His eyes are big and eager, staring down at me, so eager for me to spill my secrets and my deepest, darkest fears. I'm dying, drowning, and I can't breath; my throat is constricting and his hands are around my throat, tightening, tightening, squeezing, harder and harder, his nails digging in.

"Woah, dude, back up," Ramon says softly and his arm slides into my peripheral vision. My skin crawls and I can hear Royce's loud bellowing laugh right in my ear, drowning out everyone. I haven't seen him since this morning and I really wish he would shrivel up and scatter himself across the Pacific Ocean, where he can't find me because he's floating in the ocean bed and he's too far apart to draw himself back together.

"You thought you lost me, didn't you?" he whispers, his voice faraway as he smiles, teeth sharp. He looks like a starving wolf, closing in for the kill, his eyes gleaming dangerously; I can see myself in his big, black pupils, wide-eyed and pale, washed out hair clinging to my gaunt cheekbones. "I'm _never _leaving," he continued, snapping his teeth and his tongue catches between the rows of sharp, white razors. The front tip flies off, spurting blood everywhere and I rock back violently, feeling the hot spray hit my cheeks and dampen my sweater. He grins, wiggling his wounded tongue at me like it's funny, blood dripping down his chin in thick, red globs of candle wax, dripping to the floor.

I'm crying, hot tears boiling my skin and leaving second degree burns in their place. His blood keeps dripping down onto me, poisoning my skin, sinking into it, absorbing his hate and his rage and his black soul. His lifeless eyes are smiling as he notices the blood.

"Chloe, it's okay. You're safe," Dr. Gill says and I blink hard. I'm in the sunny room, crowded by strangers with greedy eyes and sandpapery tongue, wide dog ears ready to listen to my sob story of broken bones and stalking and burns but I clam up and refuse to speak for the rest of the day.

Royce never leaves.


	15. Chapter 15

Burn

Fifteen

The Group

Here at Lyle House for the Mentally Disturbed, we have all sorts of kids. Crack heads, eating disorders, self harmers, suicides, depressed, bipolar, multiple personality, schizophrenics. You name it, we have a kid for it.

Nate's in here for bipolar disorder; Amber has anorexia; Mila's bulimic; Brady has anxiety; Peter's a suicide risk; and Ramon had clinical depression. I'm here because the docs think I tried to kick the bucket, which totally isn't true…at least, partly. I'm actually here because I'm a human skeleton now. At least they don't know that my ex is haunting me and he tears into me every night and fills me with poison.

"So, like, this is paradise, basically," Amber says finally as she sips her water, her eyelashes fluttering every second. She looks pale in the harsh lights, her hair brittle and dry, a washed out, green-blonde color like oats. Her breakfast sits in front of her, a cup of fruit with whole grain Cheerios and a banana. When she reaches for her spoon, I can see the hollows of her collarbone and wonder how much rainwater could collect in them.

"So you have overbearing parents?" Nate's tearing into his cinnamon roll with an absentmindedness, too focused on Amber, his big, round eyes staring up at her; he looks so very fresh and pink faced in the sunlight streaming in; it's _obvious _he doesn't belong. The docs could pile pills down his throat and he'd waddle out and never have to deal with us crazies. I pick at the loose thread on my sleeve and twist it around my finger, staring down at my food.

Mila's scarfing down her food with an animalistic ferocity, hardly glancing at any of us as she sucks down two huge, gooey cinnamon rolls, three bananas, and three pancakes, drowned in sticky syrup. Her long black hair hides her gluttony from most eyes but, I'm sitting directly across from her and watching her under the guise of invisibility. Ramon's got his head down, sleeping quietly as his empty tray sits. Peter has therapy in the morning with his doc, Dr. Talbot, so he isn't here right now.

"Yeah," Amber drawls out, licking a bit of yogurt from her bony finger as she squints at Nate's grinning face. Her muddy grey eyes are searching his, trying to find some sort of ill intent no doubt but, when she doesn't find any, she just gives him her sharp shoulder and eats her food in small bites. She looks translucent under the light, an ocean of paper thin skin, rivers of blue crawling underneath like a virus poisoning her. I lick my lips and taste syrup from my waffles.

A burst of noise from the other kids here make me tense up; the noise is bouncing off the walls and stabbing my ears, painfully loud, painfully shrill; someone has a whiny laugh. "You really should've stayed home," Royce says to me, scowling. I shrug my shoulder at him and try to focus on holding my fork right, without my hands trembling so badly that I can't hold it.

When I glance up, Brady's watching me with curiosity. He doesn't really talk during group therapy and if he's called on, he turns red and hides in his shirt until only his big, brown eyes show but, right now, he's staring straight into my eyes, holding them with a steady stare.

"What's your story, Chloe?" he whispers and his soft voice floats to my ears on dried leaves, no louder than a fresh leaf falling during summer, when it's too hot and everything is dry and burning. I look around me, finding all eyes turned to me except Mila's. Her food's almost gone.

"I got screwed over by Life," I say because that's the only thing that pops into my head and I really don't want to tell these strangers with wide, gaping mouths that spew secrets like common day facts and hungry eyes, begging to watch me pull off my clothes and show off my bird wing ribcage and carves out collarbone and the black stitches holding together my arms.

I don't say anything else for the entire breakfast, even when Mila starts to cough and hack on her food and the nurses perform the hymlech on her.

oOo

Dr. Gil gives us all composition notebooks during the next therapy group. I turn the book round and round in my hands as she scoots her chair forward, moving into the center of a patch of sunlight. She looks almost pretty, despite her bubble-gum pink glasses and frizzy, red hair and her pinched expression, the light haloing her hair and making it shine. I blink and she looks like herself again, all beady eyed.

"This is for your thoughts," she says, waving a hand through the air. In the shadow of her fingers, I can see Royce, sitting cross legged like he has nothing else better to do, making a flower crown from roses. His head is tilted down so I can't see his face and all I can see are his curls, shiny and black but the color looks off; they look bluer than I remember. He's weaving the roses together, his fingers moving efficiently, threading the stems over and over each other. His hands are flying. I watch his fingers and remember how they felt on my skin, digging bruises deep into my bones, breaking my hips when he clung too hard.

"Chloe?" It's the doctor, watching me. Everyone is jotting something down; when had we begun to write? Where we supposed to write? I feel my stomach roll. "I-I—" I stop, midsentence as Royce lifts his head to the sun. I can see why he's had his head down. His face is different, paler than I've ever seen him, dark bruises under his eyes, three long scratches running across his cheek; he looks deranged, a bruised smile gracing his handsome, angular face.

"I've missed you," he whispers, smiling wider and I notice the blood on his teeth. When we head out after group, my notebook is still blank and I notice the blood pooling on Royce's lean hands. He'd slashed his hands open on the thorns.


	16. Chapter 16

Burn

Sixteen

Confessions

My notebook is still blank by the time next therapy group session rolls around. Amber whines about her overbearing, perfectionist parents; Nate mutters his way through his cycles of suicidal thoughts. Brady bursts into tears instead of reading his secrets. Ramon stands up and speaks of his battle, a climbing tug-of-war with his worthlessness and uncaring father.

When Dr. Gil turns to me, her beady eyes wide and eager, posed on the edge of her seat, I find my voice. "This is bullshit," I say quietly, my voice muffled by my hand in front of my mouth. I twist the thread on my sweater around my finger, watching it turn blue and bulge from lack of blood circulation and unwind it. "Language," Mila says softly, wiping her chubby fingers on her sweats as her glossy eyes stare at me angrily. "This is bullshit," Ramon echoes, grinning madly.

"It is," Nate continues, slapping his hands on his thighs. "We're supposed to sit here and share our sob stories with the kids who'll just gossip and judge? And don't you _dare _say these kids don't judge. You may stuff us with enough pills to make us vacant-eyed and waddle but our mouths still work," I whisper, staring at my feet, noticing the scuff on my sneaker. "We all have our demons—" I see Royce sitting on the floor between Mila and Amber, his face bruised still and the scratches on his cheeks glittering like freshly-healed scars when he turns his head, watching the sparring match. "—And may not want to share them. You can't _force _us to say shit about dead parents or our cocaine addiction."

The room is dead silent. Dr. Gil clears her throat, flustered. "I never said—" she starts, her pitchy voice betraying her embarrassment but I leap to my feet. "I'm not _crazy_," I hiss, bristling, "and neither are these kids! They're amazing." I wave my arms. "You want to know what I'm in here for?" I demand to the wide-eyed teens, the wide-eyed doctor.

"I'm here because I fucked up. Big time. I let the words swallow me and drown out my own thoughts, taking over and look! Just look, you stupid bitch!" I ripping at my sleeve, struggling to pull the fabric up passed the ragged stitches. "Look." My voice is softer, weaker as I slowly come out of my angry burst.

I sit down and stare at my arms, stretched out like long twigs before me, pink, ragged cuts layering them. My eyes blur with tears. "I'm _not _crazy," I whimper finally before curling up on myself, folding in, doubling. I cry quietly.

oOo

During dinner, Ramon steers me into the men's bathroom. At first, I start to panic when I see the urinals and watery tiles but I notice the intense sadness in his dark eyes. "Once upon a time ago, there was a happy boy. He had a family who loved him and he threw it away," he says slowly, reaching for the bottom of his sweater. My heartbeat drums in my fingertips.

Royce is in the mirror, staring at me with angry, accusing eyes. He looks warped, thinner than I remember, gaunt-faced and his hair disheveled. His hands are scabbed. I can still remember the blood on them, the gaping wounds bleeding, staining the floor, a puddle, no one else taking notice.

"That boy grew very, very sad for some reason and he felt out of control. Every day after school, he locked himself in his room and pulled off his shirt. He laid towels on the floor and pulled out scissors." Ramon's shirt is halfway off his chest, revealing a lean tummy and dark pleasure trail. Hs voice shakes. I shake and try to breathe. _In, out, in, out, _my thoughts scream, rattling in my brain as my eyes watch in surprise.

His chest is lean and muscular but its riddled with long, ugly words. _Fat. Failure. Bitch. Douchebag. Abomination. _He takes a deep breath. "One day, he cut too deep, lost too much blood, and his family shipped him off to a mental hospital for help." He pulls his shirt back on slowly, like it's painful, and I watch as inch by inch of his skin is covered with grey fabric. For a very long time, neither of us say a word and I sit on the ground, not caring about the water soaking my sweats. At least they're dark.

"Why?" my mouth asks for me, because my brain and vocal chords are currently not speaking and my thoughts are scattered in every direction. Some stay with Royce, others cling to Rachelle, while most float in the dark matter of space, waiting to be plucked for verbal use. I force myself to blink. "Because I was angry and scared," he replies softly, kneeling down beside me, crouching really. "Why are you crying?" His hands cup my face and his long lashes flash at me, cutting off his dangerous eyes.

"I didn't realize I _was _crying." My throat is dry. "What you said today was utter madness," he tells me, nuzzling my hair. I peel away. "Good or bad kind?" I'm eyeballing him warily now, realizing we're utterly alone and he could absolutely take advantage of my weakness. He sees my apprehension and sighs heavily, leaning against the counter with his back to me. In the glass of the mirror, Royce is watching us closely, a mocking smile lighting up his angular features. His eyes look red.

"Good. Chloe, I won't hurt you. I like my girls willing." Ramon's smile is too brilliant and I find my heart thumping loudly. "Besides, I'm sure Derek Souza wouldn't like me stealing his girl," he says with a laugh. My face warms as my heart drops. _Yeah, you did a lot. _"It's complicated," I murmur, squeezing my hand into a fist to keep myself together. "Let's go before they think we're having a quickie." He pulls a face. "I like you, Chloe, but you aren't really my type."

"Good to know, Mr. Mother Russia."

"You know, Russian women…" As I trail behind him, shutting off the light, I catch a glimpse of Royce's eyes reflecting the light like a cat's. My stomach hurts.


	17. Chapter 17

Burn

Seventeen

Murder-Suicide

They say there's been a murder-suicide near this place. A crowd of kids huddle in front of the TV, watching with excited eyes in the dark, the glow of the flickering images casting scary, angry shadows on the wall behind them. I'm sitting between Ramon and Brady, who hold hands behind my neck and whisper silly things in my ears.

"…Thirteen year old Austin Banks and eleven year old Kari Waters were found this morning in the abandoned school near Lyle House for the Mentally Disturbed. It seems he was tied down and tortured by the younger girl until she finally shot him at point blank range before turning the gun on herself," the reporter says but I don't—can't hear her voice, hear the wind whipping passed her, being picked up by the boom mic or hear the kids whispering amongst themselves. I can see her mouth moving and I read her lips.

Austin, with his downy, soft hair and freckly face, so utterly different compared to his brother. His smile always made my day. A sharp breath catches in my throat, cold water pouring over me as I spot Royce in the corner, looking more haunted than ever, his face gaunt, his frame skeletal. His dark eyes meet mine as a cloud of snow flakes flutters out of his bruised, blue lips. I'm frozen, all sharp glass and bruises, sinking into the expanse of the couch cushions. My stomach is twisting, churning like a great wave.

"Chloe?" It's Brady hovering. "I'm fine." **Lies, lies, lies. Who cares? You don't _fucking CARE_****. You're a STUPID BITCH who **doesn't…care. "My stomach just hurts." Which it does, but only because my ex-boyfriend's littler brother got killed by Beth's little sister. Oh Jesus Christ, my hands won't stop shaking and I'm clawing at my skin, driving my nails into it. My short nails scratch against the threads of my stitches, holding me together, a good little doll staying all in one piece. The skin on my face is bubbling and hissing, spitting out acid so thick and hot. Snot drips down my face, down my lips, burning and carving into my skin at it goes. Hundreds of eyes stare at the crazy girl on the couch, losing her mind, far more crazy than any of them and I lurch off the couch. My knee scrapes against the edge of the coffee table, painful and oozing blood.

"Sweet little Chloe," Royce whispers and the words reach me in a cloud of icy air, frost crawling up my arms. My breath puffs out, painfully cold as the icy tendrils burrow into my flesh, digging tunnels and worming into my bird-light bones, filling them with pockets and replacing my with bad memories and cold slush that oozes black tar. It's seeping out of my eyes, out of my ears, from my nose. The front of my sweater is plastered with it, making everything sticky. I manage to teeter to my room without slipping in the tar or bleeding all over everyone else.

"It wasn't me." The smile is cold and calculating, all sharp teeth and angry eyes. Pale skin stretches taut across his gaunt cheekbones, shadows dancing across his face. I flop down onto the bed, springs squeaking in protest as my body bounces. The sheets and blankets rub my skin raw. "Oh Jesus," I whisper, clutching my head. He laughs, a short, humorlessly one at that, and settles down beside me. He is cold and whispery and everywhere his skin touches me makes me burn, threads of spidery-thin black crawling across me. I'm rocking gently, hugging myself as the sheets and pillowcase crackles like static. "At least," he pauses, hands waving as he wiggles his fingers, spidery and long, "not _this _time." He chuckles, his breath casting spiderwebs inside my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

He smiles when I start to struggle, buck up. He's trying to kill me all over again, his hands crushing me, my skin, nails biting and tearing, beads of blood rising. My face feels warm, hotter and hotter as something black slips down his cheeks, splattering my face. When I trash about, he pins my arms. He is all ice and glass, his eyes glittering. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out what he says, what he's still saying, his voice drowned out by the life flowing in my veins, pumping fast and dangerous.

I can feel the vibrations of someone knocking on my door and Royce glances up casually, as though we've been made but he isn't bothered. My arms and legs are strapped down with two hundred pound weights; he's cutting open my chest and my black-tar blood is spilling out, my heart pounding. I'm gushing all over the nice, blue blankets and it looks like a scene from a horror movie.

"Chloe?"

The door creaks open. Royce barely spares Dr. Gil a glance while I throw my arms across my middle. My hipbones my ribs my bony wrists dig into each other. "Are you okay?" she asks, pushing the door open wider even though I haven't told her she can come in yet. I'm screaming, my bones vibrating with the crying and sobbing going on inside my body while she looks at me with worried rat eyes, arms crossed firmly over her chest. "I'm fine." I'm finefine_finefine_**finefineFINEFINE **pretty **FUCKING FINE **for a girl who's being tortured. Royce dips a finger into the gunshot wound in his chest, letting blood pool onto my toes and warm them, make the skin peel away and drop to the floor in chunks. It's like acid.

"You sure? Mila said—" My eyes narrow at her. "I'm just tired." The words are punctuated by a loud yawn. Outside, there's a loud crash and a wailing sob. Maybe Mila choked on something again and is lying in a pile of blubbery snitchy mess, her shiny hair hanging around her while her glazed eyes gaze up. A girl can only hope. "Chloe, are you sure?" She holds my eyes, like it'll magically make my super glued lips peel open, words pouring out, about the scared little girl trapped in my bedroom back home, her lungs filling with rusty smoke, her eyes burning with tears. Her daddy is in his room, sleeping his pain away with his pretty, shiny white pills doctor prescribed to keep his monsters away and the hungry, angry sadness at bay. Auntie is struggling to open the door, screaming and crying—crying so loud that it makes the window tremble and vibrate.

"Yes." I think she can tell I'm lying. It's either that or I'm putting on my best Hollywood Actress face, shoulders back, eyes lidded. Royce is laughing, his face twisted. Dr. Gil turns and walks out. "Mila!"

I hope the bitch chokes on all those snitchy things she says to the doc and I hope Royce will die soon because I don't want to see him anymore, don't want to have his laugh ringing and ringing in my ears, no more cold hands on my skin, tearing gaping holes in my flesh, filling me with more tar.

I roll over, think about my daddy's .45 handgun sitting in the bottom of his desk at the hold house, and I dream of putting that cool metal against my burning temple, fire eating away at my skin, and pulling the trigger. My brains will splatter and decorate the walls like morbid, gothic art. Auntie will scream and cry and wonder "how the **fuck **did this happen?" but no one will be able to answer it.

Royce's laugh bounces in my skull, shattering it into fragments while I slip under into the requiem of dreaming, even if it is the fucked up kind about blowing your brains out with your daddy's revolver and having them be used as wallpaper in your any eleven year old's wet dream bedroom of pinks and purples and weathered beaten books.


	18. Chapter 18

Burn

Eighteen

Visits

Royce wakes me up by screaming in my ear until everything is ringing, loud and painful. My head is split open, pouring slush onto the baby-blue pillowcase. I'm a very bad girl for bleeding all over the hotel nice bedding and I sit up, brain matter pouring down my spine, pooling under my butt-cheeks. Royce is grinning wide, teeth flashing, shark-tooth sharp; his t-shirt is covered in clotted blood, the scratches on his face gleaming vanilla in the light. "Stupid bitch, get up. Your boyfriend is here." He looks sour and bitter, arms crossed.

"Chloe?" It's Gil, knocking on the door, pushing it open without waiting for my reply. I'm still bleeding all over the bed sheets, staining my hair pillowcase sweatshirt, everything. Royce laughs, thrusting his pelvis into Gil's face as she walks in, right through his crotch. He's wheezing now, hysterical.

Gil's completely blind to the torrents of blood gushing out of my brain, out of every pore, my eyes lips nose ears. "Derek is here to see you." She's smiling, but it's strained. Something bad has happened, I'm sure of it. I push myself out of the bed, spraying blood everywhere, splattering across her cheeks but she's immune to noticing it; instead, she stands in the doorway, watching me pull my wet sweatshirt off. It plops to the floor. My arms are bleeding through the gauze, gushing, pumping out my sweet blood. She doesn't realize it—no, she doesn't want to. "I'll wait outside," she says, pulling the door shut behind her as she backs out.

Royce is yelling, cupping his mouth. "Get the hell out! We don't like your kind!" as I watch the door close with a solid click, note of finality. Head bobbing on his bony shoulders, he turns to me and watches me with half-lidded eyes. The carpet is soaked now, squishy under my bare toes, wet, soaking the bottom of my sweats. Padding through the sea of blood, I wade to the dresser, dingy and broken handles with names carved onto the top, and pull out a brand new sweatshirt. This one is pink and flowery, made for sweet little girls and it picks at my skin when I slide it over my head.

"Chloe, let's play." Royce is in front of me, staring, grinning; his eyes are bloodshot, the look of a stoner, of a drunk, but his smile is feral; there isn't a tic in his right eye like when he's been downing a bottle or inhaling a joint. He is one hundred percent sober. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure ghosts can't even drink.

"I don't want to play. I want to see my boyfriend." I'm throwing Derek in Royce's face and he reacts the way I want him to: hysterical. His face gets sunburned red, eyes bugging as he starts to freak. His hands rise, fall mid-strike; he realizes he can't touch me. He frowns at me. "Stupid bitch," he says but I don't rise to the bait. I don't feel tears weld up inside my eyes or my throat tighten; I just feel cold. Ice replaces my bloodstream.

"Go see your little boyfriend," he tells me, snapping his fingers and the picture frame goes flying off the dresser, sailing through the air. The corner hits my shoulder, hard, and I lurch, stumbling, trying to catch my balance. My knee hits the edge of the bed frame, blood welling up under the surface. There's a bruise now, red with a blood blush.

Royce stares and stares and stares at me, at the fallen picture frame, at his hands and then he smiles, slowly, a vein in his temple popping out. I scramble to my feet as the door opens. An orderly with short hair fills the space. He scowls at me, at the picture frame, and then jerks his head back. Gil hovers behind him. "Let's go," he snaps in a thick voice and my legs work without my brain, scurrying me forward.

I catch a glimpse of the picture frame, sunlight gleaming off the glass, reflecting Royce's smile. I am cold all over now, fingers toes nose frozen, frostbite burning holes into my skin and not once do my teeth stop chattering. _He's a ghost. He can't touch me. _

Somehow, it doesn't comfort me.

oOo

Derek's hard, hot arms wrap around me the minute I step into the visitation room, choking me, knocking away the frostbite and biting cold. I shiver in his heat, basking in it. He smiles into my hair, breathing me in. I must smell okay if he doesn't say anything like "you have BO," or something.

He shoves me away, holding me at arms length, eyes trailing up and down. Checking to see if I'm dying still, if I'm bleeding. Obviously he can't see that I am, gushing all over the floor, all over my sweatshirt. I'm standing in a rose-colored puddle, soaking my sweats and my toes and Derek's clunky sneakers. It's a miniature lake we're in. He doesn't notice the wet floor, slick and slippery, or Royce, twirling something shiny and sharp behind him. I catch a glimpse of the syringe before I lurch forward, pretending to trip and slam Derek into the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

I feel the air rush above me, inches from my hair, and the syringe clatters loudly, noisy, to the floor, dragging the orderlies attention. "Chloe?" Derek's voice is warm and soft, deep. It's like drowning in a lake of sensuality. "Hey! What's…" The frowning orderly squints at me, scowling, as Derek sits up. "She tripped and, unfortunately, I tripped too." He sounds so sincere. "What's that? On the floor?" My words come out shaky and frightened.

The other orderly, a tall, bright-eyed black man with a tattoo of roses on his neck, bends down and picks it up. His hand goes to his vest pocket. "This…this was in my pocket before," he mutters, shaken. "Must've dropped it," Derek says, rubbing up and down on my arms like he knows why I'm shaking.

I want to tell them about my ex-boyfriend's ghost grinning behind them, sliding through their stomachs, and laughing hysterically in their faces, scratches on his face vanilla and gaping, stretching wide, but they'll fill me up with cold serum if I speak, if I try to tell them the impossible, and haul me away fast asleep.

"Something here isn't adding up." The orderlies keep glancing at us as we stand.

"It was Royce," I whisper to Derek. He looks at me, looks back at the orderlies, and says, sharply, "Chloe, stop. There's no such things as ghosts." And then, even sharper, "You really _are _crazy. No wonder they stuck you here."

That hurts, piercing me like a million daggers. His eyes are cloudy, and I can't read his impassive face so my body turns around. "Take me back." I'm choking up now, big, hot tears filling my eyes, my throat tightening. "Ch—" He's staring at me, shocked.

"Don't touch me." The words are snapped, striking a chord inside of me, vibrating viciously. I can't see him through a blur of tears. "It's okay," says the rose-necked orderly.

"It's okay. This is where you belong." Royce is smiling. I don't believe either of them.


	19. Chapter 19

Burn

Nineteen

Claw Me Down

Royce lays with me that night, whispering in my ear, pawing at my sticky sweatshirt that vomits glitter onto the bed-spread. We don't breathe a word of Derek. We don't talk about my gaping arms. He tells me how he missed me, so glad I'm back, and I lean against him, electricity crackling where his transparent skin touches mine.

The scars from those scratches are shiny and vanilla-colored against his mocha skin, catching my attention. "How'd you get those?" I ask, words falling out before I can filter them. His muscles are stony, cool as ice under the backs of my knees. "Someone gave them to me," he tells me slowly, sitting up. I sit up too, our legs touching hip to ankle. His sneakered feet dangle off the edge of the bed. He looks completely out of place, saturation turned up to one hundred, super bright, super vibrant.

My stomach twists, churning. He leans against the wall, the muscles of his shoulder blades pressing against the fabric of his damp shirt. "Who?" Why, why, why am I asking? He wants me dead, buried under a pile of dirt, pierced through chest, my blood gushing out of my ribcage. Royce twists and the moonlight splashes across his face, highlighting the deep-set eyes I'd fallen in love with, accenting his cheekbones, cutting away the hard set of his lips. I can still see him, reeling on the backs of my eyelids, dead on the floor, staring up blankly.

"She was very pretty," he says, tracing a scar with his fingernail, digging it in. A bead rolls down his cheek. He wipes it away with the pad of his thumb and licks it off, ignoring my shudder of disgust. "Very, very pretty." I pull away but his fingers form a manacle around my left wrist and the normal electricity is now painful, his nails digging in, breaking the skin. "Let me go," I rasp out. The sweater is chaffing my skin, ripping at my stitches, threatening to spill my blood-filled veins and sinewy muscle all over the blankets.

"I can't do that, you stupid bitch," he tells me, leaning into my face. My legs are tangled in the sheets, sweaty and sticky so I struggle to break free. "The lady looked a lot like you," he says, blowing an artic wind into my face. My eyes prickle with tears. Frost creeps up my skin, turning it black and grey. "Big blue eyes, same hair. Nice ra—" I manage to rip out of his talons, chunks of flesh flopping between us like peeling paint, and my back hits the floor.

I'm trying to breathe, glaring up at him as he leans over the edge, smiling down at me. His teeth are like a shark's. He slips over the edge, gliding onto the carpet. A wave of blood washes down his legs, like he's covered in it, and he soaks the carpet. Every step squishes between his toes, leaving his footprints behind.

He swallows my scream with a cold hand before the first note is out of my throat.

* * *

I wake up groggy, sunlight flitting in through the cracked blinds. I lift a hand up to rub my eyes. They come away feeling flaky and puckered, like they'd been encased in mud and left to dry. The sheets crackle when I sit up, electricity loud, static and I notice the walls. Deep, angry gauges, a pair of scissors hanging out of the drywall, handles spread wide.

_Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. _My name, over and over and over. Flecks of the off-white paint layer the floor in a dusty blanket. _Never gone. Always lovely. Liar, liar. You're all going to burn in hell. I'll _fucking _end you. _Horror crashes over me, hitting me across the face.

_Why do you bother trying to help anyone?_ _In the end, we're all royally fucked up. All the druggies and cutters and whores are going to die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. _

I feel a huge rush of nausea and scramble over to the edge of the bed, the sheets catching around my knees. My elbow smashes into the railing. I pitch forward, scraping my temple on the edge of my dresser; the hot bile rushes to my lips, spilling out in a gushing torrent. I feel so sick, my lungs on fire, throat burning as I retch and retch, until my stomach's empty heaving. Tears run down my cheeks, mingling with snot.

The carpet is soaked with something. Royce's footprints are still there, like footsteps on the moon, frozen in time. I'm shuddering, gasping for breath, wiping the remnants of vomit, flecks in the cracks of my lips, when the door opens. It's Ramon, behind him Nate. He looks at me, his charcoal-black eyes staring in surprise and concern, and then he's striding in, shoulder jutting with each step. Nate gapes, wide-eyed, as he stumbles in.

"Wh-what…" he mumbles, tripping over something lying on the floor.. I don't say anything, looking away instead. My clothes lie everywhere, scattered, soaked with red, ripped to shreds like someone's taken a pair of scissors to them, threads hanging off.

Ramon picks his way across the room, stepping over the huge clumps of wet clothing, fabric tangled together, his sneakers squelching with every step. He doesn't even seem fazed as he sits down on the edge of my mattress, helping me up. I look away, tears burning in my eyes.

"I—"

"Dear God, Chloe."

Derek's massive frame fills the doorway, trailing behind Dr. Davidoff, whose face pales like snow at the sight of my disastrous room, at the blood soaking the carpet, congealed; at the carvings in the wall; at the shredded clothes and toppled desk and smashed windows, the shards of glass gleaming in the sunlight. Derek's green eyes stare at Ramon's hands on me, one on my hip, the other on my shoulder, steadying me, and I feel a wave of dizziness rocket through me—is he jealous somehow? Of _Ramon? _

"How did…" Davidoff trails off, taking in everything, all the chaos, at the vomit on the floor, my rumpled state. "Get the orderlies."

I don't argue.


	20. Chapter 20

Burn

Twenty

Sweet Sickness

After the orderlies wrestle me down, their needles slide into me and ice replaces my veins. It tastes like a slushy, cold and crushed, and I grind my teeth against the bitter cold. I am freezing over, an icy lake in the middle of winter. Dr. Gil is speaking quietly with Lauren, her face twisted with very word coming out of the doctor's mouth. Her sad eyes keep rolling back to me, where I'm lying on the messy sheets in my bed, the orderlies on either side, keeping watch in case I do something crazy, or even crazier that scratch messages into the wall and puke my guts out onto the floor. Since I'm on my back, I can see the ceiling and it's spinning downwards, spiraling like a coil.

"…I'm afraid…" Dr. Gil's voice fades out, static cutting in and the it's Lauren's voice. "…Can't you…nowhere else…" Derek's standing a little ways away, head turned to the side like he can't bear to look at me. I can't bear to look at myself either: my hair's a wild nest of curls and tangles, my skin is pasty glue-stick colored, and big, blue and purple bruises under my eyes; in short, I look like death beat me over the head. Nate's talking to another doctor, Ramon hovering between the doorway and him. Royce is nowhere to be found but there's still a chill in the air, my breath escaping in short little grey puffs of air. My teeth chatter; I keep thinking I'm going to bite my tongue off and drown in my own blood, unable to move or scream for help because of the ice-blood in my veins.

"…I'm afraid…danger…herself and others…beyond our help…" I manage to focus my eyes on Dr. Gil's hawk-nosed profile, her thin, peeling lips, her beady eyes behind her wire-rimmed glasses. She looks ashy under the clammy pallor. There's this green tinge in my aunt's face and I know the pinched look her face; my dad and I used to call her Ready to Blow face.

It hits that it's _my_ fault that she looks like that.

oOo

It turns out that Dr. Gil is kicking me out. Not even Mila, who binge-eats until she pukes everything up, has gotten kicked; not Amber, with her bony ribcage and squinting eyes; not Brady, who's recently taken up pulling his hair out. I'm the first in the thirty-four years to be kicked out. I'm officially Number One in the Crazy House.

The orderlies clean up the soaked floor, soggy with pig's blood, and the vomit, no more than water; I don't remember eating anything last night. The walls have to be patched up and sanded and re-painted. They vacuum the paint dandruff off the ground and throw away my shredded clothes. The mattress is stripped; bleached; and dried and the bedding is swapped out with clean ones. "I don't see how she could've done that all by herself," one of them mutters, the one with the rose tattoo on his neck. He's stretched out across my—no, _the_—bed, tucking in the sheets military-style. "These nuts are all kinds of crazy. Remember that kid, Kari? She just about scratched her face clean off because 'the bugs were inside her'. She was a schizo," the other orderly says.

Rose Neck nods.

I'm watching them from the little folding chair, waiting for them to finish so they can shuffle my zombie body down the hall, load me up in that clunky old van to cart me off somewhere else. Hopefully, there will be worse kids, like Kari with the cratered face, or Beth with the messed-up, balding head of baby hair. The kids before me, the ones who got shipped off too because they were above normal crazy, the ones who pulled their hair out and scratched holes into their face and scrubbed their skin out. The ones with blacked-out memories and bloody pieces of paper that make them hop from house to house.

Rose Neck glances at me. Flexes his huge muscles. He's one of those massive guys, body builder, but his entire head is shaved so he kind of looks like a beefed-up Mr. Mosby. "She's not that bad," he argues. The acne-faced orderly shrugs. I call her Pepperoni. She's tiny, almost scrawny, with big, eyes that would make a Chihuahua look normal and wispy hair. I immediately don't like her. She looks like she belongs here.

"Some of these kids are real fucked up," she says, shaking her head. Her arms are full of clean, soft pink bed sheets and I think of the old ones, covered in sweat and tears and blood, all from me. It's hard to believe. She sneaks a peek at me, catches my eyes, and then looks away. _Caught, _I think to myself and shift slowly, focusing entirely on the little movement. My legs are touching my nonexistent chest, knees bruising my chin with sharp jabs, and my arms follow the curve of my thighs, knuckles on my jaw, my lips really, and I let my teeth touch the soft skin there.

"She looks so out of it. It kind of creeps me out." Pepperoni shudders as she throws the blob of sheets onto the meticulously made bed and nudges them with the toe of her sneaker. Rose Neck frowns down at her, his bronze eyes narrowed. He obviously doesn't appreciate her lack of respect for us crazies, or our belongings. How can someone so shitty at their job still be working? Maybe the docs don't care either.

While Rose Neck fixes the bed, tucking and tugging so the sheets lie flat and flush against the mattress, Pepperoni wanders over to me. She's just a little bit taller than me so I have to roll my head back to look into her face. Her nose is squashed and wide, like someone slammed a hammer into it and her forehead is huge, covered with horribly crooked bangs that don't know how to be equal lengths; she looks like an emo kid gone wrong.

"You're really messed up."

Despite the ice in my veins, my croaky voice comes out. "Yeah. That's why I'm getting kicked out." Rose Necks shoots her a glare and she steps out of the room, unable to bear being around me.

"She didn't mean it." He looks like he wants to throw her out a window. I wouldn't mind being his size so I can throw Pepperoni and Dr. Gil and Mila out windows.

"She did."

The ice glues my lips shut again and Dr. Gil, stupid, mean Dr. Gil with her pointy nose, comes in. "We're leaving now," she says to Rose Neck. He gives me this sad puppy dog look.

_I'm really crazy. I'm really sad and sweet and sick. Sweet sickness. _


	21. Chapter 21

Burn

(Part Three: Sewing the Pieces)

Twenty One

Attention, I Don't Give a Shit About Any of You Assholes

I spend the trip out of the Crazy House half-awake and half-blissed-out, watching the buds of light explode behind my eyes in a million different colors and spin in every direction, getting bigger or smaller or wiggle sideways. Lauren's with me, holding my hand tightly, pressing her body against me, all bones and paper-thin skin, her chin digging into my shoulder with the sharpness of a dull blade. She is burning hot against me, turning the ice in my veins to runny water that pours out of every pore, soaking my sweatshirt with its sticky, icky mess; when I wiggle out of it, I see Derek gaping at me, his eyes wide behind his overgrown bangs, and I wonder why. I look down and realize I'm not wearing a bra, just a tiny camisole, my nipples sticking out of the fabric, arms on display. The ache to unravel the gauze hits me hard enough to make me grind my teeth, pain fissuring my mind into a million razor sharp shards; one piece is me refusing the urge, another is trying to feel embarrassed like I know I should be, and another piece is distracted by the dust motes in the air, swirling in the beams of street lights.

Behind me, I hear Kit say, quietly, "Is she okay?" His hand touches my shoulder, squeezing in a way that's supposed to be reassuring but his hand touches bone under my papery skin and he recoils, disgusted and surprised. I recoil as well, folding my knees up to my braless breasts. Derek's staring out the window intently, his chin in his palm, watching the endless parade of bristly trees and cracked road and houses, so many houses. It's funny to watch him when he's not aware of me; I feel like a pervert, but I can't tear my eyes away. My eyes trace the furrow of his brow, the straight slope of his aristocratic nose, the sharp angles of his lips, his dimpled chin; he is beautiful.

I catch a flash of light, a bright glimmer, and watch as Royce lurches into existence through Derek's placid expression, completely unaware of the ghost that just popped up. My hands are shaking so badly, it's a surprise that no one's pointed it out yet; I squash it with my thighs. Royce shakes himself, little droplets of ghostly slime hitting the windows and Derek's face and then he grins, showing off his newly filed teeth, pointed like a shark's. My stomach is in knots.

"Chloe?"

The guy driving looks at me, squinting. He's young, around Nate's age, with oily hair and a cross around his neck. "Fine." The lie is bitter and rotten on my tongue, mushy like rotted food. Royce lies down horizontally, just floating there, an invisible buoy, bobbing in nonexistent waves; he rolls his arms backwards, kicking. Something wet and dark is pouring off his t-shirt, which showcases the gaping wound in his chest, and the smell wafting off him is loud, right in your face, filling my nostrils with its dark, rich scent. Bile rises in my mouth, sour and hot, and I swallow a few times, trying to dislodge the taste from my tongue. Derek's thigh touches mine, heat piercing through the fabric of his jeans, thawing out my leg; almost unbearable, painfully hot. He's burning a hole into my leg where our thighs touch. Royce pushes between our heads. I try to swallow a scream, only to choke on it, sputtering and hacking spittle all over the smooth upholstery in front of my face.

Lauren thumps me on the back hard enough to knock my teeth out. "A shame they didn't slide you too full of ice," Royce complains in my ear, his hand passing through my arm, electric currents shocking the skin. It's like sticking my finger into a light socket or pressing my tongue against a battery or penny, a shock to my system. Angry tears weld up behind my eye sockets, too hot to be pleasant. "Leave me alone," I mutter, sinking low into my seat. He laughs. Lauren leans around me to look in my face, but I press my cheek into my thigh and hide behind my choppy hair. "Uh," Derek says, very quiet, "Are you okay?"

Royce is sticking his tongue out, showing off the lighter pink scar that runs along the middle from where he'd ripped it out so long ago; I'm hyperventilating. The sea inside my veins sloshes, spilling out of my ears and my nose. When I yawn instead of screaming, a monster crawls out of me; it turns around and flicks its tail at Derek. I shriek, incoherent, and lurch for him, throwing myself across him.

"Chloe!" Lauren's hands dig into my shoulders but I wrap my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his chest, hearing the steady gallop of his heart. I remember pressing my face into Royce's chest and never hearing his heartbeat, just low gurgles like indigestion. Snot and tears run down my face and Derek sits there, just kind of like a stone, aside from his heart and heat and quivering muscles; he doesn't initiate contact. In fact, he's shying away from it.

He must think I'm all sorts of fucked up.

Lauren unwinds my arms and pins them against my sides, yanking me backwards. My arm bends the wrong way and I cringe away. Kit hands her something, shiny and silvery and cold, and it pricks my skin. An icy frost creeps up my eyes. Cold slips into my veins, replacing my blood. Derek stares at me, wide-eyed as fatigue chugs through me like a wave, forcing me to slump. Lauren shushes me, rubbing my back. I don't know whether to cry or embrace the drowsiness rolling up to me.

Kit speaks in quiet volumes to Derek, probably comforting him from the attack by the crazy bitch falling asleep next to him.

"Crazy bitch."

_I don't care. _


	22. Chapter 22

Burn

Twenty Two

Home At Last

Since I'm considered "extremely dangerous and destructive", I'm sent home, where there will be nothing but sour memories and brown bananas because Aunt Lauren didn't make banana bread that one time before I got shipped off.

My skin is prickled all over and my nipples strain against my flimsy tank top; Aunt Lauren makes me wear her old-lady cardigan, which hangs just above my nipples and has a plunging neckline since I have no boobs to speak of.

Derek stares out the window the entire ride, his finger tapping out an unfamiliar beat on his muscular thigh. He hasn't spoken a word to me since I tried to stop Royce and he keeps to his side of the seat, glued to the car door like he's terrified of me. Maybe he is. He refuses to look in my direction, his eyes trained pointedly at the scenery outside.

I wonder what's going through his head as I watch his face, the tic in his eyebrow, the flutter of his eyelashes with every slow blink. It's cold, and I'm shivering, wrapping my black-lined arms around myself, feeling the shivers shaking my belly.

Lauren is asleep, wearing her cardigan again; I'd gotten too hot.

Something warm drapes across my back and I inhale the familiar smell of burning leaves and pine sap. Huh. I peek a glance at Derek, finding him now dressed only his t-shirt, and then I look down at the sweater hanging on my body, dark green and four sizes too big.

"Aren't you cold? You know, since you've got veins full of ice," Royce yells in my ear and the kid driving frowns when I jump, my heart lurching into my throat. Acid builds up in my esophagus, bitter and burning, and it hurts to breathe, drying out my throat.

"Guess you're still pretty skittish," he laughs, pressing the palm of his hand against my shoulder, burning through the sweatshirt hanging off my shoulders, frostbite creeping across my arms, my chest, branching out in long tendrils. It's like sticking my body against a huge ice cube, shockwaves rolling up and down my skin, making it painfully numb. I'm shivering, trying hard to sit still while ducking out of Royce's grasp.

Derek glares at me out of the corner of his eye, shifting closer to the door.

I sit on my hands and hunch my shoulders against Royce's icy, burning touch, making myself as small as possible, unassuming. Royce wraps his arms around me, his front to my back, and I wish I was back in Lyle House; he never touched me while I was there. His hands slide along my arms, tracing the stitches holding the skin together, and then down my sides, against the sides of my breasts. I'm blinking back hot tears.

"Chloe?" It's Kit, leaning over the backseat to brush my hair away from my face.

I tuck my chin against my shoulder. "Fine, fine, dandy." I whimper under my breath as Royce lurches through me, sending a cold jolt through all my veins, electric, fiery. He tumbles and his foot connects with my jaw, blood bursting in my mouth. I gag on the metallic, salty taste and hold a hand against my mouth, lunging over Lauren to roll down to the window and spit the mouthful out.

She jerks awake, shouting incoherently. "Chloe, baby!" she gasps out in a whispery voice and pulls me back into the car. "Don't do it!"

"Do what?" I ask, dazed as I lean back into the seat, hitting Derek. He promptly elbows me off him, his elbow digging into the space between my ribs, and I pull back.

Royce has vanished into thin air again, leaving my head spinning wildly out of control as Lauren strokes my hair, whispering to me quietly.

Derek snorts. Without turning in our direction, he hisses, "She thought you were trying to off yourself." He wipes his palms against his jeans, like he's sweating profusely, and his jaw tightens, muscles bunching up under the skin. Although he hasn't turned, I can imagine his eyes, hard and sharp like shards of glass, glaring out from beneath his lank bangs.

Swallowing convulsively, I twist away from him, curling in on myself. I loop my arms around my legs, curled up against my chest, and feel my heartbeat thud against my boney knees. A low, mellow pain pounds through my jaw where Royce kicked me, and I don't have any doubts that it's red from his shoe.

"I wasn't," I say meekly as I rest my forehead against the cool covering of the seat, icy against my blazing skin. My mouth still tastes metallic, lining my teeth with flecks of blood, and I take a sip out of a cloudy water bottle I find under the seat; the water's stale, a bit warm, but it washes away the bloody saliva still inside my mouth.

Derek's knee is inches away from mine and I can't tear my eyes away from his jean-clad leg. Even through the denim of his pants, I can feel the heat wafting off him, a human radiator, and I want to nuzzle into him, to thaw out my frozen fingers arms legs. Clenching my jaw, I glare against the sun's bright light so I don't do something really stupid, like crawl into his lap and kiss his mouth so hard that our teeth click or slide my icy fingers underneath his shirt to feel my skin again, and close my eyes. I'm tired, my eyelids bobbing.

Sleep is like sweet oblivion.

oOo

A hand is squeezing my bicep, nails digging in. I can't even open my mouth to scream before another pair of lips, chapped and cracked and dry, cover mine, swallowing the air from my lungs, teeth pressing against mine. The hand is squeezing tighter and tighter, cutting through my skin. "You'll be so easy to break," a voice whispers, dry words carried on cracked leaves, laced with venom. "So soft and yielding, so easily bruised. Nice and colorful."

I open my eyes to find Lauren leaning over me, her pendant swinging over my nose as she goes to wake me up. My mouth opens and a scream, high pitched and loud enough to make my ears pound with sharp pressure, escapes me.

"Royce!"

Lauren pulls back, startled, and smacks her head on the window. The bags under her eyes are obvious, but she looks relaxed, relieved. A few strands of hair, too short to fit in the bun that looks ready to cut off her circulation, glow in the sun.

I pull myself upright, panting for breath, and twist my head away from her, so she can't see the tears in my eyes, the wide-eyed expression of pure terror on my face. The sun's glare flashes into my eyes and I squint, spotting the familiar house before us. Too many trees, a square patch of green grass. Sleek lines, shiny windows, all of them dark.

The house where I met Derek.

I suck in a short breath through my clenched teeth.

"We're home," she says, choosing to ignore my scream.


	23. Chapter 23

Burn

Twenty-three

Moon

Beep…beep…beep.

I'm lying in my bed, listening to a truck back up in the cul-de-sac. Our neighbors are moving away, and I haven't slept at all today.

Lauren is already gone, hurrying to work as fast as she can. She left at three AM and hasn't even called to check in on me to make sure I haven't jumped off the roof or swallowed an entire bottle of pills.

"You know," Royce says conversationally from his corner, where he watches me hungrily, "you should probably get up. Make an appearance in the window or something, so the neighbors don't think you're dead." He's scrubbing at the scars rippling down his face with one hand, tracing the length of the scar tissue.

"Why?" I ask, looking out the window to watch a girl climb out of the U-Haul truck and head up my neighbor's driveway. Her skin is smooth and freckled, like mine used to be before the Accident. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the fire alarm going off, the whoosh of the flames as they climbed higher and higher, the horrible stench of my skin burning.

"So they don't call the cops." He pushes off the wall and swims into view. "You're pretty stupid."

Since we got back, he's been pretty tame, no episodes of face melting or hysterical screeching and wandering hands while I sleep. He keeps watching me eagerly, his eyes big and glossy like black stones, like he's waiting for something to happen. Sometimes, when I wake up at night, he's not there and he quivers like static when he appears, looking ashy and dull-eyed.

"Why would they call the cops?" I push myself upright and push some hair away from my face.

"Because you're _dead_," he spits, suddenly beyond livid, his bloodshot eyes focused entirely on me but it's like he's staring through me, like I'm transparent.

My heart stutters once, twice, and then there's a hand squeezing it, tighter and tighter. I gasp, choking on my breath, and I kick my blankets away. Stars dance in my eyes as the hand stops squeezing my heart and moves onto my lungs, using a vice-like grip that makes me gasp and pant for breath. "R-Ro—" I plea but my breath is cut off, words choked out of me by the hand.

* * *

There's a blinding light when I wake up, shining right into my eyes. The air is wet and cold; it stinks like fresh cut grass that's been sitting under the sun for a long while.

I'm freezing, my arms and legs stinging, and my stomach rolls when I crawl onto all fours. Sweat runs into my eyes as I wait for stomach to stop pushing bile up my throat; every inch of my t-shirt and shorts are soaked with wet dampness and I smell urine. Did I pee? I crawl like an animal to a nearby tree—why are there trees? Am I in the woods? —and cling to it with both arms, using it as leverage so I can stand on unsteady feet.

There's big, fat pine trees all around, pine needles ticking to my legs, which are covered in scratches, and there's sap under my nails, which are ragged like they've been ripped off. I'm breathing through my nose as I slowly look around, head pounding as I do so. My throat burns as I swallow a gritty mouthful of saliva, only tasting blood.

I look up to see a huge moon looming above me, casting silver light everywhere and turning the trees black, throwing the burns on my skin into high definition, reminding me of the Accident. The scratches on my arms are bright and puffy, inflamed; the ones on my legs still bleed. There's crunching footsteps and the trees shake.

I press my cheek into the rough bark and breathe deeply until I can stand on my legs without the tree.

"Chloe?" the masculine voice asks.

I turn and stare at the unfamiliar man, taking in the wavy hair pulled up into a ponytail and a scruffy beard. His eyes are staring at me in a wide fashion, like he's surprised at seeing me, out of everyone. There's a dark sweat stain around the collar of his t-shirt that draws attention to a puffy scar around his throat.

"Chloe?" he repeats, creeping closer with his hands up. Maybe he thinks I'm a cornered animal that will strike out.

I look down at my body, taking in my missing socks and unlaced shoes that are crammed onto my feet. There's blood under my nails, ragged cuticles with dried blood over the tears in the skin. I can't imagine how wild and tangled my hair is or how dirty my face is.

"Are you okay?" He unwraps a windbreaker from his shoulders and holds it out to me.

I take a few steps towards him and slide my arms through the sleeves. "What happened?" I whisper, my voice nothing more than a hushed whisper; my throat is scratchy like I've been howling all night.

"I found her!" he yells over his shoulder. A beam of light cuts across his shoulders, spilling over the sides of his head, shining straight into my eyes. His eyes have big pupils. "What happened?" he repeats. "Chloe, you _disappeared_. Doctor Fellows came home at about three and there weren't any clues at all, no note, no witnesses, _nothing_."

He holds my arm tight enough to bruise me as he leads me forward, holding me up when I trip over roots.

"Rae's getting that revenge!" Royce screams in my ear and I jerk out of the man's grasp, tumbling flat on my back; I'm gasping for the breath hat had been knocked out of me. "You won't even realize when it happens. People will think you're crazy. No one will be able to understand why little Chloe is disappearing, making everyone worry like a bad girl." He's smiling, teeth on display as the man takes me by the arm, helping me up.

We break through the trees.

I see the red and blue lights of a police car, Lauren's knobby, too tall frame silhouetted against the flashing lights.

"Chloe!" she screams.


	24. Chapter 24

Burn

Twenty-Four

Therapy 2.0

"Chloe," Lauren says as she pulls the car into the parking lot. I press myself against the door tighter and squint out at the blots of figures walking across the black asphalt. "Chloe, look at me." She touches my arm, heat leaking past my heavy hoodie, and she glances down at my hands, twisted into fists around each other.

I pry my eyes away from the walking people. "What?" I ask.

"Don't blame me, okay? This is court-mandated," she tells me quietly without meeting my eyes.

_This is all your fault, _I think as I look away and unlock the door. "Sure," I mutter and kick open the door.

After the cop cars took us to the station and asked me what happened and I couldn't remember, they decided I was nuts—especially once they caught sight of my arms—and got a judge to sign a court order for mandatory therapy. _Therapy, _like I'm a whiny thirteen-year-old that hates life and needs to talk about how my crush doesn't like me back and all the girls are mean because I like My Chemical Romance and dress like I live in Hot Topic. Gag me already.

I'm barely inside the building before a girl with a pink bandana pops up from behind a cactus and shoves some pamphlet in my face. "Welcome to Genesis Springs! Here's a pamphlet about all our therapy groups and our one-on-one—"

I hold my hands up and glare at her. "Not thanks. Just point me to Dr. Davidoff's office and I'll be on my way." Whether it was the glare or my tone, I don't care, but the smile on her sallow face drops the minute I stop talking.

"O-oh. Um, past the receptionist desk, down this hallway, and it's door 402." She clutches the pamphlets against her chest, wrinkled already and torn-up corners and ripped covers, and one hand sneaks up to her head, underneath the bandana. With one quick tug, several thin, black hairs come out of her scalp and she chews off the ends.

I scoot around her and walk as fast as I can without actually running.

There's muffled arguing from a room called "Marriage Therapy" and soft sobbing.

I pass a little boy who's hitting a woman who looks tired of his shit. When I glance back, the girl in the bandana still standing there with the same kicked-puppy look on her face but she turns away to greet the unfortunate new comers by shoving her pamphlets in their faces. Eventually, I reach an ajar door with gold numbers across the top that read "402" and push it open.

The doctor's facing the huge, bay windows and there's six other people sitting in a semi-circle. A skylight lets sun shine down on his bald head, the skin surrounded by a circle of thin, white hair. When I open the door, he turns and pushes his wire-rim glasses up the bridge of his narrow nose and steps forward, opening up his arms.

"Welcome. My name is—" he begins, dropping his arms to extend his hand to me.

"Davidoff. I know." Instead of meeting his beady eyes, I stare at the spot above his left shoulder.

Someone coughs.

"Okay, I'm going to do a roll call." He gestures to one of the blue, plastic chairs like the ones they have in schools and I sit down in the middle of the left side. There's four seats to the right of me, four to the left, and there's about twenty chairs in all.

There's an interracial couple next to me, a black boy and a red-haired girl of Asian descent, and I see the boy glancing at me continuously, like he's seen me before. I don't recognize him. The girl tilts her head down to whisper in his ear and his hand rubs across the ragged scars peeking out from under her prosthetic leg.

A blonde boy with thick eyeshadow is lounging across the sofa near the bookcase with his legs splayed on either side of a girl sitting on the floor. The only way I can tell the boy is a boy is because of a scruffy beard covering the expanse of his wide jaw, and instead of male-orientated clothes, she/he's wearing a pleated skirt with sneakers and a tank-top with a snake on it. He/she sees me looking and lifts a single hand and wiggles acrylic nails with rings in them.

"Hey," says the girl on the floor in a voice way too deep for a girl, "stop fucking staring. She's mine." Her eyes pierce me down to the very core. A lock of hair falls across her forehead as she lifts her top lip, revealing several piercings.

"David, stop," the boy-girl admonishes.

There's a long silence before "David" ducks her head and the boy-girl continues to braid her long, black hair down her back.

"Alright! Let's get started," a skeletal boy with braces says in a ridiculously cheerful voice, adjusting the heavy knitted sweater that hands off him. Next to him is an overweight girl whose thighs spill over the edges of the chair that smiles without teeth showing and whose hair hangs in limp pieces around her neck.

"Talia Reynolds?"

"Here." The red-head waves at Dr. Davidoff.

"Joshua Liasson?" There's a soft chuckle from the black boy.

"Kathryn Terrace?" Instead of answering, the boy-girl wraps her arms tight around the black-haired girl.

"David Level?" The black-haired girl kicks one of the empty chairs.

"Ashton Wales?" The blue chair squeaks under the overweight girl's shift of distribution.

"Conner Wildes?" The skeleton boy giggles.

"And Chloe Saunders." I wrap my arms around myself and feel the thick, black stitches holding me together. Keeping my taint from spilling out.

"Okay then," Dr. Davidoff says, clapping his hands together, "let's tell everyone why we're here. Now, you don't have to right now, but eventually you will have to."

Talia shifts rubs her leg and squeezes Joshua's hand. "I'm here because my uncle cut my leg off and left me to die when I was eleven."

Joshua kisses her temple. "My parents were killed in front of me."

Kathryn's smile drops and tears fall down her face. "When I told my grandparents I wanted to be a girl, my granddaddy whipped me so badly I couldn't even stand and they tried to 'shock' it out of me." She lifts her hands to her face and sobs.

"I tried to kill myself six times in the last two months and then, before that, I was sent to the hospital when I fainted from starvation," David explains, pressing her lips against Kathryn's freckled wrists.

Connor wraps a boney arm around Ashton's wide shoulders and smiles sadly. "I was raped and beaten in an alleyway and when I told my parents, they called me a faggot liar and nobody believed me."

Ashton's entire body jiggles, her jowls quivering and big, fat tears running down her chubby face. Her fat hands squeeze her yoga pants and she looks down, ashamed. "I-I'm s-so…I-I…" she blubbers as she continues to cry and cry. "I binge and purge, okay?"

And then all eyes are on me, shiny with tears. I don't want to tell them my ex-boyfriend stalked me for six months, haunted me, broke into my house after I moved away, and he was shot in my friend's house. And then, after that, I sliced my wrists open and quit eating because it all tasted like gun smoke, but before any of that, my parents died in a fire and it robbed me of my skin.

Dr. Davidoff twists around to look at me, smiling encouragingly. "Go on."

"No. It's nobody's business _why _I'm here, just that I am." I set my jaw as Ashton looks up and says, spittle dribbling down her several chins, "We told you why we're here. You should do the same."

"I didn't _ask _you to tell me your life story," I argue.

"But Dr. Davidoff—" Kathryn starts.

"_No! _I _can't_."

"It's okay, Chloe. You can share in your own time," Dr. Davidoff says gently, "but let's continue."


End file.
